


Love Enough series

by Frensayce



Category: Glee
Genre: Autism Spectrum Character, Canon only through Season Two, Comedy, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Glee is not mine, LGBTQ Female Character of Color, Male Character of Color, Original Faberry kids, Romance, but this series is.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-08 17:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14110770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frensayce/pseuds/Frensayce
Summary: What happens when the road to happily ever after reaches a detour? What will it take to find their way back to one another? Future Faberry must come to terms with the fact that their marriage isn't as perfect as they thought.





	1. You Better Sit Down, Kids

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I don't know how many people even remember this story. I took a break from writing for six years, but it felt like time to bring it to AO3 and see it to the end. I ask for patience and any criticism and/or encouragement you care to offer. The response from readers is what brought me back to this. Thank you for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, namely Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, and Ian Brennan. Any and all original characters and plot are the property of me, the author of this story. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material and make no profit of this story. No copyright infringement is intended.

  
 Quinn sat forward on the couch, elbows on her knees and hands clasped together as she prayed for strength. The big brown eyes in front of her were suspicious, and with good reason, she thought. She shook her head with a rueful half-smile. The girl was curious to a fault and hated not being able to figure things out. Though never lacking for whimsy, she was sometimes too serious for her age and was developing a logical, problem solving mind Quinn couldn't help but admire. Unfortunately, this was not a problem anyone could suss out.

 The crisp rasp of a throat clearing drew Quinn's attention to the two boys sitting at the small brunette's right. They were all brunettes, actually, with heads of thick, glossy hair and frowns on their faces. This was already more difficult than she expected. Not that she ever thought it'd be easy.

 "Okay," she began, dropping her hands to her thighs and drying her sweaty palms on her slacks. It was a flawed effort, but it gave her something to do. "First, I want you all to know that I love you. Very much."

 She looked into each set of eyes filled with confusion: two pairs of brown, and one almost a golden green. Their owner, a six-foot-tall sixteen-year-old boy, pressed his lips together in a thin line, holding back whatever retort scraped against his tongue. Quinn was impressed. Normally, his cocky-jock attitude and impatient snark would've burst through without hesitation. There was no joy in knowing that this was the first time he took something seriously enough to keep his mouth shut.

 "And I know you won't understand this." How could they when even she didn't understand? "But," she continued, hopefully hiding her heartbreak. They didn't need to see how badly she was hurting. "But I have to go away."

 Being stared down never sat well with Quinn. Not even when she was a child. No one was ever allowed to intimidate her or make her feel like she was in the wrong or a disappointment, no matter how true it may be. Nevertheless, right now she actually deserved it, so she let it happen and absorbed the disgrace she felt.

 The puzzled voice of the younger boy seated in the middle interrupted her pity-party. "Again? Where to now?"

 The blonde sighed. "Away," came the gentle answer. It wasn't what they wanted to hear, but it was all she had.

 "When you come home?"

 Her gaze darted to the big-eyed beauty tucked into the corner of the couch. She looked even littler than before and Quinn's heart broke all over again. She swallowed the lump filling her throat.

 She chose her words very carefully. "Not for a long time."

 It was barely more than a whisper, but it shook the room like a thunderclap. Her eyes darted to the boys before she looked away in shame. The older one understood what she meant. And now he'd hate her.

 "Why?"

 Her shoulders deflated at the question, and tears welled in her eyes upon seeing the young girl's face twist in incomprehension. Quinn couldn't handle it.

 Turning to the boys, she clued them in on what she could see one of them already knew. She still needed to say it, though. They deserved that much. "Your mama and I are separating. I'm moving out."

 Silence coiled around them like a hungry python and left little air in the living room. She was dizzy and couldn't breathe under their judgment as she waited for the explosion. It didn't take long.

 Ava started crying. More accurately, she was bawling and Quinn saw Rachel's pained eyes staring back at her just as sure as she did last night. She looked so much like her mother. Opening her arms, her chest ached as her daughter dove into them. Ava had only just turned four. She'd be starting pre-kindergarten in the fall and was already ahead of her peers in some ways. Music had taught her how to count a little bit, and Quinn taught her colors and letters. Every now and again she used to hear the little girl humming as she bounced around the house. Ava would huff and say it was "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" like Mama sang, but Quinn was positive the little imp was singing her own version of the alphabet song in her head. In spite of these skills, she knew her baby girl just couldn't understand this.

 "Hush, Vee-Vee," she cooed, offering what small comfort she could and knowing it would never be enough.

 Joshua had shot up out of his seat but thankfully hadn't stormed out as she thought he would. He got that from his mother. Looking at him with new eyes, it seemed her oldest child was too stubborn and valiant to run away from his problems or whatever happened to upset him. She wondered when he'd become so brave, then chastised herself for missing it.

 He paced off to her right, avoiding the furniture. His arms hugged his torso and his shoulders shook with quiet rage. Now that trait, that one he got from her. Quinn was horrible at expressing her emotions. In fact, that was the reason this was all happening. She just didn't know how to tell anyone what she was feeling. And showing it… Well that was pretty hit or miss. Her walls were just too high. Sure, in the beginning of living life outside of Lima she'd been free to be whoever she wanted, love whomever she loved, and do whatever she damn well chose to do. But things change. People change. She'd changed. Now she just felt trapped.

 She squished the tiny girl against her and looked past her shoulder at her other son. Daniel was always the hardest to read and Quinn never managed to figure him out. He was guarded—played everything close to his chest and usually without realizing it. Unless provoked, he didn't act out like Josh and he didn't crave the spotlight like their sister. Danny was quiet. Methodical. Observant. As a toddler, if he wasn't following his hero big brother around, he was quietly building with wooden blocks, eventually graduating to Legos as he grew, creating his own worlds.

 Quinn had stepped on many a plastic landmine whenever she'd gotten out of bed, fighting off insomnia. How many times had she mentally shouted at him to pick up his toys when she should have been happy that he chose to stay at her bedside? It took her wife pointing out during a hissed late night fight that as a little boy he had kept only his best and favorite pieces in their room, that he built his masterpieces for her, that he did it to be close to his Mommy. It used to drive her insane, but guilt churned in her gut when she thought about all the times he'd asked her play, desperate for her attention, and all the times she'd patted his head and told him she had patient files to catch up on or speeches to prepare as she wandered into her office.

 Failure and shame battered her like waves beating against unyielding bluffs. She held out one hand toward him in what she knew was a "too little, too late" attempt of connecting with her son. Go knew if he'd even let her.

 "C'mere, D." She hadn't called him that in a long while, and he couldn't hide his surprise at hearing it.

 Danny broke and surprised her in return. He launched over the coffee table and into her arms, nearly knocking into Ava.

 "I'm so sorry, D." She hoped that at thirteen he was old enough to read more into her words, but Daniel wasn't too good with that kind of thing.

 Because she was sorry. Sorry for everything. For not being there when they needed her, for missing their sports games and recitals, parent-teacher conferences, Saturday morning cartoons, and Sunday breakfasts. Work used to be so important and she let herself be consumed, justifying the time away from her family as what was best. Her work paid for school and pediatrician visits, music lessons, Josh's hockey equipment, Ava's little tykes dance and tumbling classes, and Danny's books and puzzles, his Legos. And after the breakthrough, her absence increased. When her "groundbreaking" articles were published in the medical journals, she'd been offered a huge sum of money to tour the lecture circuit and present at academic conferences all over the world. She closed her eyes, hating herself for taking the money and prestige over her family. This was her own fault.

 Quinn stroked his brown curls, desperately trying to memorize how soft they were, and she rocked until Ava's sobs faded into harsh hiccups. Looking to her eldest she was surprised, and not, to find him glaring at her. She'd never seen him so angry. Not even on the ice. "Joshy—"

 "Don't." He cut her off fiercely. "Don't talk to me like I'm a child."

 Nodding, she wanted to shoot back with the reminder that no matter how old or tall he got, he'd always be her child and couldn't talk to her that way, just as her father had told her the one—and only—time she spoke out of turn. God help her, she was terrified of being anything like that man; she was close enough to him as it was. "I'm sorry."

 Ava and Daniel settled against her, one child in her lap and the other wrapped under her arm, both cleaved to her. Josh's shoulders dropped with her apology and he flopped back onto the opposite couch, reclaiming his seat.

 "Why?"

 She bit her lip. "Your mama and I," she hesitated. How did she tell her kids that they just stopped working? Stopped trying. "We don't see eye to eye anymore. On a lot of things."

 Too many things.

 The teenager stiffened and his green-gold eyes darted to her face. "Did you…?"

 "No." She was firm and resolute in answering a question he was too frightened of asking. "No. I understand that you need to ask, but no, never." That was one similarity she and her father did not share. Her loyalty to her wife was unshakable. "I love her and you all too much to do that."

 "But not enough to stay."

 "Jesus, Josh." Her hazel eyes turned toward the ceiling, commanding the tears to stay back. Rachel was a floor above in their room, likely sitting on their bed and undoubtedly still crying. "Things haven't been right for a long time, and I know you all know that in your own way."

 "So fix it!" Joshua's patience ran out. He slammed his fists on his knees and his voice cracked. "Stay," he croaked. Angry tears spilled down his cheeks and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to quell them. "Stay and make it right."

 "It's not that easy. You're old enough to know some things can't be fixed."

 "Why?" Ava whispered into her neck. "What broked?"

 Quinn's chest seized. She couldn't do this anymore. She didn't have answers and nothing she said would make them feel better. The doctor in her couldn't prescribe anything to ease their pain, and the mother in her couldn't bear to prolong it. She kissed the girl's forehead and tugged the clinging child away.

 "You gotta let go, Vee-Vee." Another round of sobs burst forth as Quinn extracted herself from her daughter's tiny, desperate grip and stood.

 She tentatively crossed to Josh, standing before him awkwardly and so unsure of herself. The young man lurched upward and wrapped his arms about her shoulders, openly crying now and pleading with her. Quinn may have carried him, but he was all Rachel: melodramatic and intense. She hugged him tightly, fondly remembering when he had needed to be on his tip-toes to do this, grubby hands stretched toward her and demanding "uppy"—her little boy who just wanted to be held. She'd never said no to him then. That started later, when she was too busy to see how tall he'd grown. And it had to happen again now.

 Quinn leaned up to kiss to his forehead then turned around where Danny stood holding his baby sister. Ava was much too big to be coddled like that, but she let it go. He stared at her, unwavering and tearless, as though daring her to tell him to put Ava down. Quinn recognized that stubborn look: it was hers. She supposed they were more alike than she thought. Walking forward, she placed one hand on Ava's back and the other on Daniel's cheek. His chocolate colored eyes now watered, but didn't overflow. He wasn't a crier. One more thing they had in common. Silently she prayed he'd grow up to be a stronger, better person than she was.

 "I'm still here for you guys, okay?" Her assurance fell on disbelieving ears.

 She knew exactly what they were thinking: she hadn't been there in the last few years, so why start now?

 "Right," she swallowed. Kissing their cheeks, she briefly buried her nose in Ava's long hair, doing her best to imprint the smell of the little girl's watermelon shampoo before pulling away. "Well, call if you need me."

 The pathetic attempt at placating them sounded terrible even to her own ears. She wished she were better at expressing herself. Better at telling them she loved them more than anything in this world. That she never forgot about them when she was on the road, and that she didn't mean to ignore their family. As a child, she'd gone through the same kind of treatment. Russell Fabray disregarded his daughter once she reached a certain age, only toting her out for social events and parading her around like a porcelain doll, beautiful and untouchable. And so very fragile. At the time she assumed that that's just what parents did, so it was only natural of her to behave the same way with her own children. More than once in the last few months of fighting and fruitless marriage therapy did she wish she had known that she'd emotionally abandoned her babies, doing the exact same thing her father did to her. None of this would be happening if she were half as good a parent or wife as she was a doctor. Regret roiled in the pit of her stomach. If she could go back in time and fix things, have spotted the problems earlier, scheduled longer breaks at home between flights out, or not even leave sometimes, she'd do it in a heartbeat. But time didn't work like that.

 Quinn glanced toward the empty staircase, knowing Rachel was just upstairs, so close and so very far away. Sighing, she slung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her duffel bag and well used travel suitcase. She'd get the rest of her things when Rachel took the kids away for the weekend. Time out of the city would be good for them.

 Exhausted, she gave her three beautiful children a wan smile. She had no words for saying goodbye except a faint, sniffled, "I love you."

 Turning around, she reached for the door knob.

 "Don't cry, Mommy."

 She froze, took a deep breath, forced a cheery façade, and faced them. The boys wouldn't believe it, but it was meant for their sister's benefit.

 "No, baby. My eyes are just red," she shook her head, thankful her cheeks remained dry as she opened the door. "Mommy's too big to cry."

 Without another word, Quinn walked out of the home she was destroying.

 She closed the door behind her, taking a moment to blink back tears before making her way down the stone steps. The Yellowcab idled in front of the townhouse and she tossed her bag in, anxious to get to the hotel and sleep for the next year. For someone so emotionally stunted, this was too much to cope with.

 Out of nowhere, a strong hand on her bicep spun her around and a familiar body slammed her against the car. Her wife's wet mouth crashed into hers and she instinctively wove her fingers in thick, brown tresses as lips and tongues met for one last time. It was a harsh, desperate kiss that tasted like regret and broken promises and the salty tears she couldn't hold back any longer. She knew what this was, too. It was Rachel's over the top, last-ditch effort to change her mind. Her dramatics were never more appreciated than right now, but as ineffective as always.

 The kiss died out naturally, just like their marriage. Yet still they clung together, too afraid to let go of each other or the last twenty-five years.

 "I love you." Rachel's sob-scratched voice held no hope, no persuasion. Just the simple truth that couldn't save them in the end. They didn't know each other anymore. And it was making them miserable.

 "I love you, too, Rach."

 With a final kiss, Quinn settled into the taxi and Rachel shut the door behind her, her delicate fingertips sliding down the smudged window. The blonde raised her hand, surprising herself by mirroring her soon to be ex-wife's palm against the thick glass. Somehow that was the only goodbye either of them could manage. A listless smile pulled at the corner of Rachel's mouth as more tears dripped from her black eyelashes before she turned around and slowly went inside.

 Giving in, Quinn Fabray-Berry cried as the cab merged into the light traffic outside of 244 East 49th Street and took her away from the best thing that ever happened to her. But she didn't look back.


	2. I Hate To Sleep Alone

Never before had she been intimidated by a piece of furniture. But looking at the king sized bed sitting in the middle of the room left her rooted in place as she leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and tucked her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, unable to cross the threshold into the bedroom. The comforter was halfway to the floor, the sheets were rumpled, and she could smell the sex and despair from here. Miscellaneous clothes lay haphazardly among them next to the rectangular impression left on the bed by that awful, too often employed carry-on suitcase of Quinn's. A faded gray McKinley High Athletics t-shirt, worn away to practically nothing and an excellent candidate for the rag bin, was carelessly tossed on the ground, crumpled and forgotten. No, the metaphor was not lost on her. Metaphors were, after all, very important.

In a moment of tremendous bravery, Rachel stepped into the room and let out a shaky breath. Part of her wanted to fling herself to the mattress and sob, but she was all cried out and too exhausted to do anything but sleep. The kids were in bed; she should be, too.

The kids. God, that was the worst of this mess. They didn't deserve this. Nor did they understand how their parents who had once been so in love and had the best and strangest stories of their courtship—as she liked to call it—full of romance and laughter, could have fallen apart so brutally. Rachel had no real explanation. They grew apart. Become strangers. Forgotten what it really meant to be in love, to be together. Even last night was proof of that.

* * *

Rachel sighed as she sat on her side of the bed, listening to Quinn pull down the suitcase from the top of their closet. She couldn't believe this was happening. They'd been together since they were teenagers; they made it through their final year of high school in a close-minded conservative town. They'd survived the tumultuous years of college spent in different states. They'd powered through living in a tiny apartment in Washington Heights while Quinn attended med school and Rachel was auditioning and performing all over the city. Exhausted, nearly broke, and eating cheap, unhealthy, and non-vegan food because they couldn't afford anything else, they'd persevered and reached their dreams. Together. Even in the worst times they were there for each other, which made the best times even better. She won her first major Broadway role, and after they'd gotten married, Quinn landed a great residency and research position.. Things worked out. They were good together. Friends were known to comment on how disgustingly cute they were. And while they'd had some spectacular fights over the years, they saw them through. So why couldn't they get through this? Why weren't they trying harder?

The bed dipped as Quinn sat next to her. Timidly, she reached for Rachel's hand and long, slender fingers intertwined with hers, still fitting perfectly. This was so unfair.

"I hate this," Rachel whispered, afraid to break the stillness of their room. It didn't feel real. She didn't feel real. Just numb.

"I know. But it was a long time coming."

Since before Ava. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek. Having another child to save their marriage was a stupid solution, but she in no way regretted it. She was the one to carry this time around, wanting Quinn to see it as her way of pausing her thriving career in the hope that her wife would take a break from work as well. The plan backfired. Since she didn't have the physical burden of a bowling ball in her uterus to hinder further research, Quinn got more and more involved in her case studies and test tubes. The pregnancy and Ava's subsequent birth granted a small reprieve from only the constant traveling. Dr. Fabray still worked long hours, but she came home each night instead of prior occasions of sleeping at the lab. Yet, deep down, Rachel knew it wouldn't last. Admittedly, even in the very beginning of their relationship a piece of her always expected Quinn to leave.

"What are we going to tell the kids?"

The blonde sighed and squeezed her hand. "I'll talk to them tomorrow. Try and explain."

Explain. There was no explaining. They didn't plan this, and they certainly didn't ask for it. She'd been so happy when Quinn Fabray, M.D. published the innovative findings in her field, and overjoyed that she was finally getting the recognition she deserved. Rachel knew she couldn't stop her wife from leaving on those on-site treatment missions and conference trips, couldn't hold her back no matter how much she wanted to. She spent the better part of the last few years alone as her esteemed spouse toured the world, famous for her medical discoveries and accomplishments. Quinn didn't fly out as often during the pregnancy, and Rachel believed that she'd stay for good once Ava came. How wrong she was. Their baby girl was barely six months before a London symposium lured the doctor away once more.

A chill washed over her hand as Quinn let go and stood, heading back to her dresser. She shoved clothes—mostly skirts, some jeans, and t-shirts—into a large duffle bag that sat on the floor. Rachel watched, brown eyes refilling with tears. She was so sick of crying. The blonde zipped the bag and placed it next to the not yet packed carry-on. She offered the brunette a weary, half-hearted smile before grabbing her pillow off the bed and moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

Brow arched and clearly confused, Quinn said, "The couch...?"

She shook her head. "No you aren't." Her voice was small but determined. She wasn't ready to let go, yet. She'd never be ready.

Eyeing her warily, Quinn slowly approached Rachel, dropping the pillow to its rightful home. She stood between Rachel's now open legs and brushed a few dark strands of hair out of her face. The brunette had been blessed with good genes and didn't look a day over thirty even though she was more than ten years past it. Quinn, on the other hand was only half as lucky. Rachel smiled inwardly. The only thing that showed Quinn's age was the modicum of platinum silver, almost white hair that streaked back from her temples and wove through the rest of her summery blonde locks. She tried dyeing it when they first started popping up, but Rachel nipped that in the bud. She loved the shimmering hair, and she loved the fine lines at the corners of those hazel eyes even though she knew they came from the stress of traveling and not from the laughter they used to share. Still, it all made Quinn look even more beautiful. And Lord knew the woman was stunning.

"What are you smiling at?"

Apparently her appreciation couldn't be contained. "You. You're still so gorgeous." She knew this was the last time she'd be able to tell her and a small piece of her died inside.

Quinn's pale cheeks turned pink and a small smile sneaked out with Rachel's tears. So, she could still make her blush. She hadn't seen that in a long, long time. Rachel leaned her head forward, resting it against a toned, t-shirt covered stomach. She nuzzled into the ancient cotton, breathing in the divine scent of her wife. When she pulled away, a weird Shroud of Turin-like image peered back at her. Her tears and sniffly nose left damp impressions on the thin fabric. Unable to look at it, she tugged up the shirt's hem and drifted her lips over impossibly soft skin.

"Rach…?" Quinn began.

Never had she imaged that there would be a "last time" for them, but she recognized the moment for what it was. Rachel pushed Quinn's top up further until the blonde got the hint and took it off. Questioning hazel eyes locked on her own brown gaze.

"Give me tonight. Just let me have tonight," she pleaded.

The taller woman bit her lip as though weighing the pros and cons of the situation. Soon, she nodded and leaned down to join their mouths in a bittersweet kiss. Tears wet their cheeks as she followed Rachel to the middle of the bed, never losing contact. Then their kisses turned frantic and despairing.

Within moments both women were topless and the diva was sliding flannel pajama pants down and off alabaster legs. Everything was skin and heat, and she didn't know if the salt she tasted was from their tears or the glistening sheen of sweat coating their bodies.

One final time, they met without pretense. Naked in every way, they made love in near silence. Only gasping moans and hiccoughing cries cut through the quiet. And when the nimble fingers inside of her hit home, Rachel went rigid and came undone with choked whispers.

The slender frame above her shook not with pleasure, but with a pain so unspeakable that all she could do was hold on as tears drenched her neck. Eventually, Quinn calmed and rolled off of Rachel. The brunette merely followed to move on top, nipping and kissing every inch of skin she could reach as she loved her wife's body one last time.

Not too much later, Quinn came on a whimper and with a fist tangled in dark hair, the other gripping Rachel's hand as if their lives—their very survival—depended on that contact, that physical connection. When Rachel crawled up to meet the hazel eyes she so adored, she saw only closed lids as Quinn released her hand, slipping away. And Rachel died a little more.

* * *

"Mama?"

The small voice sliced through Rachel's reverie and she turned to see Ava clutching tightly to her stuffed Sneetch. Quinn's affinity for Dr. Seuss was charming, and when she gave such an oddly shaped yellow creature to Rachel during their first Hanukkah in New York, she'd fallen even more in love. And since Quinn had taken to calling her "Star Belly" during the nine months she'd carried Ava, they thought it only fitting that their little girl have a Sneetch of her own.

Shaking off the sentimental memory, one of very few in the last couple of years, Rachel cleared her throat and put on a completely believable happy face. She didn't win that Tony for just her voice. Swooping down, she lifted the child and balanced her on her hip. "You're supposed to be sleeping, Little Miss."

Ava just buried her face against Rachel's shoulder in response. The actress bit her lip, debating her next words. She knew Quinn would disapprove, saying that Ava should be able to stay in her own bed and not climb into theirs anymore.

With a sigh, she internally berated herself for never voicing her disagreement and saying that once in a while was normal, the boys had done the same thing at that age. Instead she was always carrying Ava up the small staircase and back to her own bedroom in order to appease Quinn. But Quinn wasn't here. And wouldn't be again.

Resolved, Rachel kissed the soft brown mane tucked under her chin. "Do you want to sleep in Mama's bed tonight?"

Ava nodded and Rachel carried her to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. She kissed her again then began stripping the sheets from the mattress. There was no way she was letting her baby sleep on dirty sheets, tainted in every way imaginable. Briefly, she considered burning the whole bed-set as she dropped them in the hamper.

Clean, crisp ivory linen now covered the bed, and Rachel picked up her already sleeping daughter. Tucking the tiny child in, she changed into pajamas and crawled in bed, cradling her baby. Ava twisted around in her sleep and instinctively found the ends of Rachel's long hair, twirling it in her little fingers as she had so many times before. It was familiar and comforting for them both, but it didn't wall against Rachel's tears. She brushed Ava's curls out of the little girl's face and spotted the gold of her wedding band glinting in the city lights outside the window. She did her best not to wake her daughter as the sobs overtook her.

The weight on her chest when she woke was considerably less than the painful heaviness of grief at the death of her marriage, but still cumbersome. Ava was sprawled out and her tiny, footie-pajama feet were currently resting on Rachel's sternum. It was unpleasant to say the least, and she was mildly surprised to learn what sharp little heels her daughter had. She carefully sat up and surveyed the room, raising an eyebrow at what she saw. Daniel cut diagonally across the king sized mattress, his head next to Ava's as his semi-curled body seemed to unconsciously avoid disturbing Rachel. A snore erupted from the corner and her other eyebrow shot up to meet its mate as she spotted Joshua's lanky form stretched across the chaise, his blanket puddled on the floor from rolling onto his stomach while sleeping. Quinn was going to be so pissed when she found out.

Except…

Quinn wasn't going to find out. She would never know that their sons had crept in during the night to feel some kind of familial closeness as their parents' marriage dissevered in half. She wouldn't know that Ava and Daniel had shared the pillow she'd left behind or have firsthand proof that Joshua was indeed far too long to sleep on the claw-footed lounge in the corner. No, she'd never know any of this. Because she was gone. Because she walked away.

Anger brewing inside her, Rachel managed to climb out of bed without waking her children. Not that it was a difficult feat. They all slept like Quinn, anyway: practically comatose. Especially Joshua, that boy was worse than the Snorlax Pokémon and Rip Van Winkle combined.

The brunette grabbed a hooded sweatshirt from the bottom drawer of the dresser and moved into the bathroom. She threw on the old hoodie and spotted her reflection.  _ _Columbia__. This was Quinn's. It smelled like her, too. Rapidly blinking her eyes, Rachel refused to cry over a stupid article of clothing just because it belonged to the woman who left her.

She frowned and took it off then went to grab another one—one of hers. Sparing one last glance at the children, she forced herself downstairs to make breakfast. Pancakes wouldn't solve their problems, but they'd fill empty bellies and maybe even make the morning bearable when she explained that the four of them were getting out of the house and leaving the city for a little while.

Besides, it wasn't as though this was the first morning they'd spent without Quinn. As cold and terrible as it was, they were used to it.


	3. Don't Talk To Strangers, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family flashback of fluff!

 Rachel Fabray-Berry tapped the end of the stylus to her closed lips, perusing her shopping list while peripherally keeping an eye on her son as he strutted up and down the grocery aisle with his orange plastic hockey stick. Normally she would have made him leave it in the car, but she was in too good of a mood to wage that war. Quinn was home from a ten-day conference abroad, and the boys were overjoyed to spend time with both their mothers. Well, Joshua was overjoyed. Daniel was a touch too young to really understand why his mama was walking on air just because his mommy was there with morning kisses and evening cuddles.

 The  _ratt-a-tatt-tatt_  of Joshua's stick on the metal shopping cart was easily halted by her hand blindly reaching out and catching it on the upstroke.

 "Careful, sweetie," she warned with a gentle smile.

 The five-year-old gazed up at her in pure adoration. Though such an energetic child, he was remarkably well-behaved. For her, at least. He and Quinn had their stand offs, but only when she and Rachel were at odds on something. Joshua was always there to take his mama's side no matter what the argument. Crunchy or smooth peanut butter? That boy was all over Jiff's Crunchy blend before Quinn could get a word in edge-wise reminding him that he hated finding whole peanuts in his sandwiches.

 The brunette smiled. She loved how during every "fight" with their son Quinn was constantly suppressing a grin, pretending that the upturn of her lips just wasn't there. He, however, was a fierce opponent when he wanted to be, which was usually in the middle of the night. He'd often climb out of his bed and into theirs, burrowing his way under the covers and wedging his tiny body between them thus excluding his mommy from all nighttime cuddles. And while Quinn was just as much as a child when it came to not getting what she wanted, she rarely complained because she was the one Joshua ended waking up on top of, not Rachel. Joshua seemed equally okay with that outcome.

 Clenching the stylus between her teeth, the five-feet-two-inched diva stood on her tip-toes to reach the final item on her list. Surely putting the Nutella this high up was discriminatory. This is what she had Quinn for, anyway. Sadly, her wife and their younger son were off picking up a package of bacon. Daniel was two, but the boy loved his bacon.

 Rachel's fingertips strained to cover the last few centimeters necessary to grasp the small jar of the hazelnut spread but a large hand came from nowhere and swiped it away. She pivoted on her toe, ready to demand the item that was rightfully hers, and came all too close to a tall, black haired, broad shouldered man with sparkling blue eyes.

 "Here," his tone was pleasant enough. She wondered what his vocal range was. She'd guess him to be a baritenor, but she couldn't be sure from only a single word.

 "Thank you." Her smile was genuine and friendly as she took the proffered jar. "It's rare, but I'm glad to learn that chivalry isn't completely dead in this century. Especially in New York."

 His own smile grew brighter in the fluorescent lighting of the grocery store. "I'd like to think my mother raised me right." He held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Todd."

 "Rachel," she greeted in return. He was definitely a baritenor: his low pitch climbed higher during his introduction. That, or he was nervous for some reason. Nerves played a crucial role in maintaining one's natural timbre.

 "A lovely name for a lovely woman."

 She was wrong. Chivalry was indeed dead. The brunette sighed inwardly and nodded politely. "Yes, well, thank you again."

 Turning back to the cart, she caught her son's narrowed gaze. Joshua did not look happy. His gold-green eyes flashed in a way that reminded her of Quinn's right before the blonde tore in to someone. No five-year-old should have that look, but he was nothing if not his mother's son: both were extremely possessive of Rachel. She wondered if that was a learned behavior from being with her day in and day out or if it was gathered through osmosis from stewing inside Quinn for nine months. It could have been genetic, though. Officially they didn't know whose egg Joshua came from, but Rachel could hazard a guess even without those piercing eyes and strong jaw.

 "Hey little guy."

 The strange man kneeled down in front of her son and Rachel's spine stiffened. Not because she was worried about Joshua, but because she was worried for Todd. She watched tiny fists fasten around the solid plastic of the toy hockey stick. Todd looked up at her, entirely unaware of the potential danger he was in.

 "He's adorable. But he can't be yours, you're too young." That dazzling grin was back.

 The thirty-one-year-old actress did not, in fact, roll her eyes. "No, he's mine." Joshua's corroborating nod went unseen by her would-be suitor.

 "Made him yourself, huh?" Without a doubt Todd thought he was being cute.

 "I had help," she deadpanned.

 Quinn needed to hurry up with that bacon. She was probably teaching Daniel the necessary pork belly criterion for specific occasions. Bacon with eggs had to be genuine porcine and was cooked on the spectrum of tender to crispy depending on the style of eggs: over-easy required a softer consistency; scrambled demanded crumbly edges but a chewy middle; and "sunny side up" called for nothing less than all out brittle strips of fatback. On top of that, turkey bacon was only acceptable with pancakes, and "facon" was the devil. However, if it was taking her this long she was likely extolling the virtues of bacon bits on salads and the perfect amount of bacon salt for flavoring baked pumpkin seeds during Halloween, too. Secretly she'd been amused by the return of her wife's bacon cravings during her pregnancy with Daniel, but after nearly three years it was getting a little ridiculous.

 Rachel saw Todd eyeing her left hand and the absence of her wedding ring which was hanging from the necklace she hadn't noticed was oh so conveniently tucked into her shirt. She never wore it while performing and today she'd forgotten to put it back on after rehearsal. The obvious tan line should have been a clue, though.

 "Well, he takes after his mother's good looks."

 "Yes," she smirked ironically, thinking of Quinn's loveliness. "He really does."

 "I don't like you."

 Joshua's defiant voice startled both adults and a still crouched Todd returned his attention to the little boy.

 "Joshua, that's not a polite thing to say." The reprimand was purely habitual and he knew she didn't mean it. Not right now, anyway.

 "Yeah, Josh." Rachel cringed. Oh, stupid man. "I'm just trying to be friends." His flirty eyes darted to her. "Maybe we could all be friends."

 Before she had time to warn him, Todd dropped his basket of groceries and was on his ass, gripping his shin in pain.

 "Only Mommy calls me that."

 Though the confusion was all over his face, Rachel didn't feel like explaining. She didn't feel like scolding her son, either, but she knew she had to. "Joshua, that was not nice at all. What's the rule about hitting people?"

 Glowering at the man in front of him, the little boy quoted his other mother's conditions. "Hitting is only allowed on the ice." Then came the unsolicited addendum from his auntie. "Then you can beat the hell out of somebody."

 "Joshua!" Santana would be getting yet another phone call about teaching that to her nephew. "You need to apologize right now."

 "I'm sorry for saying hell."

 She groaned and rubbed her forehead. "Not to me, honey. To the nice man you unnecessarily and rudely struck."

 "I'm sorry you're a pansy."

 "Joshua!" Santana was never babysitting again.

 "What's going on?"

 Finally the cavalry arrived. Quinn had probably been lurking around the corner listening to the whole exchange and waiting until her own bugle call echoed in her head.

 "This lady's kid just hit me," Todd answered.

 "Really?" A dark blonde eyebrow rose and Quinn shifted her second in command to her other hip as he clutched the package of bacon in his roly-poly little arms. "May I ask why you're going around hitting people, young man?"

 Rachel leaned forward on the cart's handle bar and propped her chin in her hand, waiting for the scene to unfold.

 Joshua squared his shoulders and met his mother's stare head on. "He got close to Mama."

 The brunette's gesture was some kind of combination of a shrug of indifference and a nod of confirmation. Quinn opened her mouth to speak but Rachel's steadfast guardian cut her off.

 "And he called me Josh. Only you can call me Josh."

 Rachel, who'd been watching Todd during the dialogue between mother and son, spotted the man's exact moment of realization. It was beautiful. His blue eyes widened and his jaw unhinged. She then took Daniel from Quinn, prying the bacon from his chubby fists and dropping it in the cart. Todd's gaze shot among the four of them like a hummingbird on methamphetamines.

 "That doesn't mean you get to hit him. We use our words, Joshy." The blonde placed her hands on Joshua's shoulders and turned him to face the dumbstruck stranger sitting in on the floor. "Now say you're sorry."

 "I'm sorry I hit you." Even as he said it, Rachel watched his hands tighten around his impromptu weapon. Todd blanched upon seeing it as well.

 "It's okay." The tall man carefully rose to his feet and gathered his groceries, already leaving. "I'm sorry I…yeah. I'm sorry," he apologized before adding, "You have a beautiful family." With a lame wave, he limped away as quickly as he could.

 A beat later, Quinn asked, "Think he'll press charges?"

 This time Rachel did roll her eyes. "He just got felled by a five-year-old. I think he'll want to hold on to the small amount of dignity he has left."

 Her wife shrugged it off and bent down to Joshua's eye level. "It was wrong to hit him, understand?"

 Their son nodded. "Yes."

 "Good." Quinn held up her palm. "But way to protect your mama."

 With matching grins, the two high-fived then bumped fists for good measure.

 Rachel closed her eyes and pressed her forehead the curly brown hair of the toddler in her arms.

 "Love her though I do, I hope you don't take after your mommy." She kissed his plump little cheek and buckled him into the baby seat of the shopping cart before mindlessly handing him the sealed package of bacon strips he was reaching for.

 "'Con!" he squealed in delight.

 Suddenly behind her, Quinn held out a fist which Daniel immediately bumped and Rachel could see it was too late for him.

 Before she could voice her dismay, smooth hands were at the back of her neck, unclasping and removing the gold chain she wore. The silky skid of her wedding band sliding off the necklace was followed by the sensation of strong arms wrapping around her middle. She glanced down at Joshua's beaming face as he snuggled against her side. Quinn reached for her hand and returned the ring to its rightful home while gentle lips brushed over her ear.

 "I like this much better here, don't you?"

 "I do," she whispered, knowing she was grinning like an absolute fool in the middle of the canned food and condiment aisle and not caring the littlest bit. She turned her head and the two women shared a sweet kiss reminiscent of their first as an officially, legally married couple. And right then, Rachel Fabray-Berry reaffirmed exactly how she was going to spend the rest of her life: with Quinn—always with Quinn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fill for this prompt from the rq_meme: "quinn and rachel are already married and have a son about 5 years old, he is a mama's boy always looking for his mommy (rachel) wellbeing; so he decides that he would only share her with her mama (quinn) because both of them are awesome. One day while shopping a man came to them and starts to flirt with rachel and that obviously result with said man hurt, how is up to the author ;)  
> Bonus point if instead of reprimand his son for causing pain to another person, quinn and he share high fives"


	4. Touch and Go

The room was bright. Too bright for anyone's standards. Anyone aside from Dr. Steven Coe that is, because, well, it _was_ his office.

Quinn leaned back in the white leather chair. All the furniture was white and only added to the blindingly lit space. Even Steve's desk was a white wood. It reminded her of a picket fence, separating him from his clients. Or it would have if he ever sat behind it. Instead he sat in a matching high-backed rocking chair. It was a genuine old school rocker, too, with only a cushion he'd toss on it before settling in for a session. Considering the hours he must've spent sitting in that antique over the course of his career, she had to respect his stamina. The amount of time he'd clocked in with her and Rachel alone would've been enough to develop sciatica, but no, the psychiatrist was spry for his age which had to be getting close to sixty. A fifteen-ish year age difference seemed like such a big deal when she was a teenager. However, now that she was past forty, it really wasn't. Except when she thought about Beth. Beth was in her late twenties now — twenty-six this summer — roughly the same age she and Rachel were when they celebrated the positive pregnancy test as the first proof of Joshua's existence.

Shaking her head as if it would expel all thoughts of the familial ties she walked away from, Quinn turned her attention back to her ginger haired therapist. For the first time since she and Rachel originally began seeing him, she realized that he looked a bit like those Giardi triplets, all pale and freckled. And gangly. Steven was definitely gangly. Thankfully he wasn't a thing like those hellions. She briefly wondered what became of them, but that just led to thinking about their crazy Aunt Terri and Mr. Schue, then Beth again, and the Schuesters' divorce. Her own divorce.

Steven rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, hand raised to his cheek and holding up his head on a closed fist. When she and Rachel first came to him, Quinn had expected to see a notepad or something in his lap, meticulously cataloging the failure of their relationship and underlining her numerous mistakes and shortcomings. That wasn't the case at all. Steven listened underneath his clients' words for substance instead of superficial facts they doled out during each fifty minute hour. He was good like that.

In fact, Dr. Coe was such a good therapist that still he hadn't responded to the bombshell she'd dropped nearly five minutes ago. She left Rachel. It was by mutual agreement, but still. She'd moved out, gotten herself a simple apartment in the West Village, and taken a sabbatical from her career. Rather, she stopped lecturing. Her job was to continue her research, not talk about a medical treatment she developed nearly eight years ago and that other people had taken further. She was tired of it and it showed. Be it the graying hair, the permanent circles under her eyes, or the atrophied and soft muscles of her once machine-like physique, the signs were obvious. She was done.

"So," Steven began. "You left Rachel."

He said it so matter-of-factly. Quinn nodded in confirmation, not sure what else to do.

"When?"

"Three months ago."

"How do you feel about that?"

An eye roll and a scoff was how she felt about that. Channeling her sixteen-year-old self could still frighten the hell out of people, and often did when she got pissy and homesick on her various trips, but that shit just didn't fly with Steven.

"I'm depressed, angry, and scared."

The words spilled out in an unaffected monotone. She could say them — like any of the myriad speeches she'd given — but that didn't mean she was invested.

Quinn sighed and brought a hand to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. If this was going to work then she needed to finally open up. And there was no time like the present. Taking a deep breath, she gave it a go. "I fucked up, Steve. Fucked up bad."

"How so?"

Quinn found no judgment in the therapist's eyes, not that she really expected to. It was his job to look impassive all day with maybe the occasional smile if one of his regulars made a breakthrough or something, and the man was good at his job. Instead she found only encouragement and patience.

"I took her — took them — for granted. Never appreciated them like I should've, like they deserved. Was never there when they needed me."

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Fuck, I abandoned my family…What kind of person does that? Who the fuck does that?" she demanded angrily, not knowing who was supposed to answer that question and not sure she wanted to hear what she already knew.

Russell Fabray.

Russell Fabray was who the fuck did that.

The circumstances were different, but he did the same thing over twenty-five years ago. She'd defended his actions back then, when he had kicked her out the door. He did it because she disobeyed. She went against the core principles upon which he raised her. She wasn't the perfect daughter she tried so hard to be — the girl she'd transformed her body to match. She loved her Daddy and spent nine months justifying how he'd treated her. Night after night, she'd lay awake rubbing her hand over her lead balloon of a belly to soothe the kicking of tiny feet, convincing herself that once she gave the baby up and lost the disgusting weight her father would welcome her back with open arms.

Then she found out what a lying bastard and hypocrite he was. Learning that he cheated on and left her mother without a fight, without even wanting to salvage their marriage, sent a newly not-pregnant Quinn into a despondent rage. She got angry. At a lot of things. At giving up her baby. At feeling true unconditional love as a parent for a child and at how easily it seemed Russell could forget it. Beth wasn't ever really hers and never could be, but Quinn was Russell's and he pushed her away. She was his little girl that he tossed aside. And she had hated him for it. Still, he taught her something important: anger doesn't solve anything. Revenge though, revenge was just fun.

So Russell's darling daughter got revenge in the only way she knew how: by being better than the enemy. She reclaimed her body from the baby weight (and then some) and the too many late-night cravings for a bacon cheeseburger. She restored herself to the pinnacle of Sue Sylvester's pyramid. She dated both quarterbacks before and after her brief comeback as the head Cheerio and was even a front runner for Prom Queen without wearing the intimidating red and white uniform or the man-child with a relatively decent throwing arm anywhere near her.

All of it left her empty.

Empty because she realized that she hadn't done it to get even with her father or show him that she was perfectly fine without him. But that she'd done it all to win him back. To show him she could be good again. She just wanted Daddy to come home.

He never did, of course. He moved out of Lima with his girlfriend before the divorce was finalized only to leave the woman after six months and relocating again to Toledo where he now enjoyed the quiet but lavish country club lifestyle of a retired bigot. The only reason Quinn knew that, or anything else about him, was because he still talked to her older sister who only shared information via her holiday family newsletters. Frances and she were so far apart in age that they'd never bonded, practically raised as only children. But their father kept up with Fran's family: holidays and birthdays, planned summer vacation getaways or just a surprise Sunday brunch after church. Quinn's nieces were spoiled rotten by their grandfather while her own children had never met the man.

"Why do you think you fucked up, Quinn?"

Steven's voice cut through her internal rant. She raised blurry eyes to meet his and couldn't stop the words from vomiting out of her. "I'm afraid I'm becoming my father."

"Vote Republican lately?"

A surprised laugh left her and she pressed the cuff of her sleeve to her eyes, wiping the tears. Dr. Coe was definitely worth his fee. He knew exactly what his clients needed and when. Quinn always appreciated when he'd diffused the tension with some kind of quip during the marriage counseling; Rachel, however, was never amused.

Rachel. God, she missed her.

"I'm repeating his mistakes."

His face remained unchanged. Anyone else would have commented about her lack of explanation or given a reassuring nod as a way to make her continue. He didn't. He just sat there. Waiting. Not judging. Wanting to help.

Quinn leaned forward and ran her hands over her face. Confession had always been her least favorite part of Catholicism. It was also the worst part about therapy. The unfortunate truth, however, was that both were necessary for healing. So at the age of forty-two, Quinn Fabray admitted the only real fear she'd ever had in life.

"I'm not good enough for them."

The weakest lift at the corner of her therapist's mouth was the only indication he'd heard her. That was as close to a smile as _Dr. Coe_ would get during a session even though _Steven_ was usually Mr. Sunshiney McCheerful-Smiles. Quinn let out the breath trapped in her lungs.

She just made a break through.

Well. Goody.

"What makes you think you aren't good enough for them?"

The blonde shook her head, staring at the ceiling. If this wasn't going to open up a whole can of giant, people-eating komodo dragons she didn't know what would. There were so many answers to that question that she'd have to start at the literal beginning, maybe not that she was an "oops" baby by a significant number of years and a generally unwanted pregnancy, but definitely at the beginning of who she was today. "If we're going to go down this road, Steve-o, you need to know something."

Steven didn't flinch at the nickname even though Quinn knew he hated it. That was the one thing that got under his skin. And she was good at that. Worming her way under people's confident exteriors to find something to pick apart, be it a jab at a physical insecurity, or just a misnomer that someone couldn't stand, the outwardly adult Dr. Fabray was very much capable of regressing to her inhuman and cruel teenage years, and the broken, miserable existence before that.

"What's that, Quinn?"

"My name isn't Quinn. It's Lucy."

It took a good ten minutes of convincing Dr. Coe that she hadn't gone insane and wasn't in some dissociative fugue. She fielded all of his questions, breezed by his subversive test phrases and attempts to catch her in confusion until he relented and finally listened to her. She was born Lucy Quinn Fabray. She was a pimply, overweight little girl with mousy, brownish red hair and braces. That all went away during the summer before she entered high school. Medication got rid of the acne. Athletics and an eating disorder led to weight loss. Her hair lightened with the more time she spent in the sun, and the braces had to come off anyway. And she did it all on her own. Did it to become what they wanted. The only things she asked her parents for were the nose job, and a new name.

On her fourteenth birthday, Russell and Judy Fabray filed a Legal Name Change request with the probate court. Six weeks later, Lucy was gone and Quinn was issued a new social security card, an altered birth certificate, and a clean slate.

Her parents had never been so proud. Her mother paid more attention to her: shopping, girls' nights, lessons on how to be a good wife now that someone would surely want to marry her. Russell was the same way. He took her to a purity ball so she could make a chastity vow to God, but it was mainly for him to show her off like he used to do with Frannie. Whenever there was a moment in their lives to do so, he'd stand proudly with his arm around her shoulder as he introduced her to his friends and colleagues like she was some kind of trophy before sending her off to sit demurely in a corner while he conversed with the other men about stocks and real estate. He brought her along on random day trips when he had business out of town. He'd give her his credit card and drop her at the malls in Cleveland or Dayton or where ever the hell he had to be that day and instructed her to buy "something pretty."

She regained all the attention from her preschool days that she'd lost as the years passed and the numbers on the scale clicked up. She was happy. They loved her again. She was good enough.

When the pregnancy ruined her hard work, she thought she might die, but she bounced back. She didn't have her Daddy anymore, but she had her mother, her friends, the popularity and status. She was still Quinn Fabray and the prom queen tiara was almost in her grasp. Until her world collapsed again.

Steven interrupted her. "How did Rachel respond to learning all of this?"

Quinn laughed mirthlessly. "Apparently she knew all along. Rachel and Lucy were in ballet together. I didn't think she'd recognize Quinn."

"But she did."

"Yes," she nodded. "She said it was my eyes."

She wanted to smile, recalling how she'd unknowingly worn a corsage that her future wife had picked out for her to their Junior Prom, but she couldn't. That was the night she struck Rachel across the face and changed their lives forever. She supposed it was a good thing in the long run; it was why they came to a truce then built a friendship that blossomed into love. Yet here she was and she still hadn't moved on or worked past it.

Ironically, when her wife had returned the gesture years later Quinn forgave her in a heartbeat. She wondered if Rachel still remembered her haunted and empty look from that night, remembered the self-hatred and fear that stared back at Quinn from the McKinley bathroom mirrors. The blonde sniffed, knowing the answer to that. "Rachel said she could never forget my eyes."

The rocking chair creaked as Steven shifted, re-crossing his legs. "We've talked in great detail about the antagonistic relationship you two had in high school, especially about what happened during the end of your junior year, but never this. Neither of you brought up your past as Lucy. Why is that?"

She swore he could read minds. They'd told him everything, but only now was she talking about being Lucy. No, not talking about it. Just admitting it.

"Rach told me she never said anything because I obviously wasn't okay with who I was. It was before prom. I was looking for my sweater in the auditorium after a music performance when she approached me. Told me how much she missed her friend. How beautiful she thought Lucy was. And how ugly Quinn could be." Rachel had certainly seen the ugliest sides of her throughout their relationship and before.

Steven just waited, knowing she'd continue when ready.

"I hurt her because I couldn't let her get close enough to see me, you know?" she reminded him and he nodded. "Because I didn't feel worth anything without my looks."

She didn't feel worth anything now, either. She also wasn't sure why she was repeating things she'd spoken about before. "But mainly I hurt her because she reminded me of who I was and what I hated about myself. And she knew. Knew all along. But she never said anything until I put on that stupid Lucy Caboosey t-shirt."

The only reason Rachel asked Quinn to come with her to the plastic surgeon's office in the first place was to get Quinn to admit she _wasn't_ born that way and the diva knew it. The whole thing had nothing to do with her broken nose but everything to do with Quinn's inability to accept who she was and who she'd been. She should have suspected something was up. Everyone and their grandmother in Florida knew Rachel Berry loved her nose and how "Streisand" it was.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment. Quinn took the tissue the older man offered and wiped her eyes.

"Rachel's forgiven you for what you did, Quinn," he said softly. "She's said so many times in here and after twenty some years together, building a life, you still don't believe her, do you?"

Biting her lip, Quinn thought hard before answering. "I believe her." She didn't understand it, but she believed it. "She has the biggest heart in the world."

"For such a little person, right?"

She chuckled.

"Right." Sniffling, she pressed on, knowing that Steven's joke was his way of making her feel safer and pushing her forward. " _I_ don't forgive me."

Not for taking away one of young Rachel Berry's few friends, not for the slushies, name calling, graffiti or sabotage, and certainly not for hitting her. Not for letting herself lose one of the greatest things that she'd ever had, something that belonged to her and her alone. She'd fucked up and Rachel's heart wasn't hers to keep anymore. She'd misplaced it somewhere along the line. Tucked it away thinking she could go back for it at any time because it would always be there when she needed it again, waiting for her in the same spot as always. How naive and self-centered she'd been. Too caught up in herself to not see she what she was losing because her job offered her world renown and she got to be _Quinn Fabray, M.D.,_ — someone people would love, adore, respect, and idolize, someone Russell Fabray would regret letting go. The way she regretted letting go of her own family.

Quinn sat ramrod straight and stared at nothing as her mind reeled. How stupid was she to not know that she already had the love she craved — everything she ever wanted in life? That she already had a family who loved her for who she was and didn't need her father anymore. That she had a wife who loved her for all of her different selves without fail, who never found her lacking.

A wife who never would have left her.

Sweet Jesus, what had she done?

She never should have walked out that Goddamned door.

"Time's up, Quinn."

She ignored him. "How do I fix this?"

"Get a hobby."

Silence. Then, "You're fucking joking."

The older man stood, stretched his long body.

"We both know I'm not that funny." He moved to his mini-fridge in the corner behind his desk and offered her a bottle of water. She glared at him. "Do you have any idea who you are right now, Quinn? Or is it Lucy? Do you know who you are without identifying as a former cheerleader turned pregnancy statistic and failed prom queen? Or as a doctor? Or a wife and mother?"

She didn't answer. She didn't need to.

"Find something for you. Something you can do on your own that you genuinely like and hopefully grow to love." He smiled. "You're forty-three — "

"Forty-two," she cut him off.

"Sorry," he apologized with a smirk and held out his hands as he shrugged. "Find something and learn about yourself. Go figure out who you are. Without Rachel, without the kids, without your past, and without that degree and reputation you like hiding behind." His face softened into a real smile. "You need to fix you before you can even think about mending things with Rachel."

Quinn stood, tearing at the crumpled tissue in her hand. "You think I can? Fix things with her?" Her heart jumped into her throat at the idea that maybe she hadn't screwed up as badly as she thought.

Steven sighed, and she knew what was coming. Instantly her shoulders fell and more tears welled in her eyes.

"You can try, Quinn," Steven said. Then his voice turned sad, "But I honestly don't know."

Her jaw clenched and she gave him a curt nod. "Thanks, Steve-o."

And just like that, Quinn left the harsh, brilliant light of the therapist's office and marched toward the elevator like the woman on a mission she was. She knew one thing: her name was Quinn fucking Fabray-Berry. If she had to discover who in the hell that was to do this, then she had a hobby to find, damn it. Because she was going to try. Because she refused to give up like her father did. Because she was getting her family back.

 


	5. Living In A House Divided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after Quinn left.

" _You have arrived at your destination."_

The voice of the navigation system roused Rachel from her not at all restful nap and she stirred groggily in the passenger seat, thankful that Joshua was driving instead of her. She didn't mean to fall asleep, but the past few days had taken their toll and she was hoping this impromptu "vacation" would help. It was doubtful, though. They all knew they were here only because of what happened yesterday—because Quinn had left. The whole getaway was made worse by the location itself: the rural land of Mountain Dale, just skirting the small town of Fallsburg in the Catskills. It was about two hours north of Manhattan and one of Rachel's favorite places. She'd fallen in love with it during their very first year here and couldn't imagine a more perfect place to spend time with her family. The quaint hamlet hadn't changed in decades. It was like being sucked through a time portal back to the 1950s and so breathtaking that it was hard to believe it was actually in New York state.

She looked to her left, to Joshua sitting in the driver's seat as he steered the family car up the long, winding driveway. She wanted to say something. Anything. But the stony visage she'd been familiar with from her teen years halted any words that could have possibly formed. For the first time, she hated how much he looked like Quinn. He was too beautiful to look so angry and cold.

The woman's sigh was lost to the sound of the opening of the garage door and Daniel's sometimes uncontrollably loud voice exploded from the backseat.

"Look!"

There in the space next to their silver SUV, and already plugged in to the household car charger, was an overpriced luxury sedan — black, sleek, and fully loaded. Originally, Rachel was disgusted by its extravagance. Then she learned that its safety ratings were highest ever awarded to a vehicle, creating a new standard for automobiles everywhere. And for all its "badassery", she had to give the owner credit for choosing the family edition of the model by getting a sedan. There was no way the Fabray-Berry brood would have fit into it otherwise. It was definitely a wise investment on the part of the buyer.

" _Tia!_ "

Well, speak of the Devil.

Joshua turned off the engine with the push of a button while Daniel was unbuckling Ava from her big girl safety seat. The four-year-old crawled over her brother's lap for him to open his door and help her out of the tall SUV. She took off as fast as her little legs could carry her toward the side door of the garage leading into the house.

Loving arms scooped the little girl up into a tight embrace and spun her around a few times before their owner was tickling Ava incessantly and raining down kisses upon her face. Rachel followed the sound of her daughter's squeals and rounded the front of the car as Joshua was plugging it in next to his aunt's Lexus. Daniel had already wandered off.

" _Tia_ stop!" Ava shouted through a giggle. "I'm gonna pee!"

The tickles halted immediately and the no longer smiling woman quickly put her down.

"Not on me you're not, little girl." She patted her niece on the bottom while pointing to the open door. "In you go." With another giggle, Ava scurried inside to the bathroom.

Straightening, the slightly taller woman crossed her arms over her chest and raised nearly black eyes to Rachel's. The mother of three planted both hands on her hips and rolled her shoulders back in her own intimidating pose. Yes, she could be intimidating. When faced with the sight of a pissed off or just extremely determined Rachel Berry, the theatre world of New York City cowered, dropping everything to listen to her. Although, if they knew that Rachel Fabray-Berry couldn't even glare her oldest child out of bed on a school day, she doubted they'd be so apt to address and accommodate the Broadway diva's every whim. However, years of experience had taught her that neither Rachel Berry the acclaimed actress, nor Rachel Fabray-Berry her legally named wifely alter ego, scared the woman before her. Mama Bear Berry, though, Mama Bear Berry scared the living hell out of the high-priced lawyer standing in her garage.

"Lopez," she greeted in a cold tone.

"Berry." The reply was equally chilly.

The showdown lasted only seconds longer until each woman broke out into a soft smile and they met in a tight, comforting embrace. It was exactly the kind of hug Rachel needed, and who better to provide it than her best friend?

"What are you doing here, Tana?" she asked into a mane of ebony hair.

Santana shrugged out of the hug, but didn't step away. "Are you saying you're not happy to see me, Berry?" Her arms stayed locked around Rachel's middle while the actress kept her own arms looped around Santana's neck.

With anyone else, the pose would have been too intimate. Anyone else but Quinn, that was. With this woman, however, it was different. If sophomore Rachel Berry had her future-self corner her in the halls of McKinley High and tell her not only would she marry Quinn Fabray, but that she'd find the sister she never had in Santana Lopez, she never would have believed it.

Time had been unfairly kind to Santana. Her black hair was still thick and lustrous. The smile lines about her mouth no longer seemed so strange, and her deep brown eyes held a sparkle that no one would have ever thought existed within the reformed delinquent. Usually it was hidden beneath layers of what would be expected of a cold, hardened, and often ruthless attorney, but whenever they fell upon Rachel's children, that glimmer was more brilliant than any star in the galaxy.

"I'm always happy to see you." She smiled briefly then glanced at her oldest child as he sullenly unloaded the car without any prompting. It was only because their Tia was here, and she'd kick his ass for not helping out. "But that doesn't negate my curiosity at your unexpected, but pleasantly surprising presence."

Full lips turned up in a smirk, muttering, "Typical Berry." Santana released her hold and adopted a look of nonchalance. "I was in the neighborhood."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. The neighborhood consisted of only two other houses on the ridge. One was a year-round residence, the other a holiday rental. Each was a mile from the Fabray-Berry property.

Dark eyes rolled good-naturedly and Santana began walking out into the front yard. As they walked through the lush green grass, Rachel now noticed she was barefoot. Barefoot, and the lawyer was still taller than she stood in shoes. Intellectually, she knew that. But the reminder never failed to make her frown.

"Got the weirdest message last night," Santana began.

"A little birdie, and by that I mean the biggest asshole I've ever known in my entire life — and I work in corporate law — mentioned you might be here today." Her hands slid into the pockets of the fitted jeans she wore and she toed the soft ground beneath their feet. "Thought I'd come say hi."

Silence reigned over them as they stood side by side staring out at the expansive yard but not really seeing any of the gorgeous surroundings. The place was excessive in every way. Quinn had spared no expense in giving her family whatever they needed and the best of what they didn't.

"How did she seem?" The question came unbidden, but it was out there.

Santana snorted. "Funny thing. It was a straight text message. No voice or video."

They both knew Quinn's lack of personal communication spoke volumes. Texts weren't normal for her. Even if she only had only seconds to spare, those closest to her always heard her voice at the very least. Quinn was either distancing herself, or hurting.

"So," Santana continued. "I thought I'd drop by and see the hellspawn, or something."

Tiny hands tugged at the skirt of Rachel's dress, pulling her attention away from the fact that Quinn was trying to take care of them through other people. She wasn't ready to process whatever that meant.

"Mama, look!" Smiling like sunshine, Ava proudly displayed a brand new wand with a star topper and dripping with a rainbow of ribbons. "I found it in my room."

Rachel's brown gaze swept over the little girl's new clothes, too. A pink cape underneath lavender and turquoise butterfly wings, a princess tiara, and a pirate eye patch combined to make quite the ensemble. She shot a look to Santana who conveniently happened to be enthralled by the rolling white clouds above them, then came back to her daughter.

"It's a fantastic wand, baby. And I'm absolutely envious of your outfit," she grinned, gently poking the girl in her round belly. "What do you say to your auntie?"

" _¡Gracias, Tia!"_ Once again, Santana had an armful of toddler before Ava wiggled her way free and ran back into the house, surely on her way to annoy her brothers with her new toys.

Santana blushed and shook her head with an easy smile. "I didn't think she'd put them all on at once. Never can tell with that one, though."

It was true: Ava was an incredibly unpredictable child.

Not for the first time, Rachel wished that life had turned out differently for her friend. She watched Santana stare after Ava with the biggest smile on her still gorgeous face. If given the chance, Santana would freely surrender the beauty she'd retained during the years, the wealth she'd acquired, the reputation she earned — all of it — for a child of her own. Sometimes life was a complete bastard.

A distraction was needed before the woman picked up on the pity Rachel couldn't help feeling. Santana hated being pitied in general, but especially for that. She took a breath. "Dare I ask what frivolous gifts you've bestowed upon the boys?"

The answering grin was disconcerting. "Da'Maniel has some bad ass new drafting supplies." The grin faded a bit. "I wasn't sure…I didn't know how to organize —"

"He'll take care of it," Rachel cut her off in a moment of her own discomfort.

"Right," the taller woman passed by the topic smoothly. "Anyway, I figured macho-man would want something different. Just a new package of pucks and a very early morning call to the groundskeeper to spray the rink with that swanky gliding lube. You might want to put a bump in his next paycheck."

Rachel nodded and meandered around the house into the backyard. Large did not begin to describe it. Their entire lot was just over ten acres and decadent in design. Flowers of all kinds were gathered in separate gardens planted arbitrarily about the yard, a wooden gazebo stood in the far right corner by the massive swimming pool, and the former tennis court jutted out from there, rather far off from where they stood. The court was the first thing Quinn changed. She'd had it demolished and rebuilt into an outdoor hockey rink for Joshua. Synthetic ice had certainly come a long way since they were his age.

The sound of his skates, like knives sharpening on a whetstone, echoed through the yard as he glided across the surface, stick in hand and goalie net stationed at the opposite end of the rink. Of course this would be the first place he went.

The brunette zoned out, recalling when the construction was finally completed and the looks on both of their faces as mother and son stepped onto the artificial ice for the first time, the pure joy glowing in their bright hazel eyes. That was one of the best vacations they'd had up here. Ava was still a gleam in their eyes, but the boys had both mothers for six whole weeks without interruption by Broadway or the WHO or CDC. For six weeks they were a family, and she loved every second of it. Quinn did, too.

"Hey. Bring it back, Berry." Santana's voice jarred her from her memories, and Rachel was spun around to face her friend. "Those people don't exist anymore, okay? Not one of them," she whispered. "You've all changed."

Sometimes, Santana Lopez knew the exact thing to say, even if it hurt to hear it.

"She didn't want to go, did she?" Rachel's chin quivered in a moment of weakness. The whole morning she'd been strong for the kids, helping them pack, ordering a shopping list filled with their favorite foods. She didn't want to break down again. She couldn't afford to. But she couldn't help the words falling out of her mouth. "All those times. She didn't want to leave."

"No."

"But she always did."

"Yes."

Before she could give in to the pain, a brutal roar erupted from behind them. Startled, both women were instantly running to the back half of the yard.

It was Joshua.

He was beating his hockey stick against the artificial ice like he was wielding an ax to chop wood. Crack after crack reverberated across the property and the surrounding woodlands. He kept at it, bashing the stick into the surface as it chipped and shattered as real ice would, and just as sharp and hard.

The screaming never stopped. Shouting and yelling, he cried out as Rachel tore across literally acres of land to reach him, her dress whipping at her legs. She saw the hockey stick swinging down with unchecked rage until it smashed and pieces splintered across the rink. Joshua never stopped, though, determined to destroy what was left of it in his hand.

She ran to her son, not caring about maybe slipping and falling or the dangerously real possibility that he could accidentally hit her on the back swing. Her hands landed on his shoulders and turned him around. Recognition surfaced in his eyes, nearly jade from anger, and he dropped the stick and crumpled into her. The teen's weight dragged both of them to the ground as he buried his face in the crook of her neck and sobbed. She held on, petting soft chestnut hair as her not so little boy broke down in her arms.

She glanced back to spot Santana walking away, guiding an out of breath Daniel back toward the house with Ava balanced on her hip. Just because the land was huge didn't mean it was impossible to hear their brother, but God how she found herself wishing otherwise.

"I hate her!"

Joshua's rough and manly voice cracked as though he were thirteen again.

"I HATE HER! I HATE HER! I HATE HER!"

Over and over he cried out and Rachel waited, occasionally kissing the top of his head and ignoring her own tears or the damp fabric clinging to her skin as he soaked through the simple cotton sundress. Pleading to whatever higher power might be listening, Rachel begged with her entire being that she could absorb his pain as easily as her clothing took his tears.

"You don't hate her, honey," she said.

"Yes I do!" he choked. "I hate her so much!"

"Tell me why."

He pulled back and his red rimmed eyes broke her heart all over again.

"She hurt you! She hurt you and I hate her. And I hate that I couldn't stop it." Returning to the cradle of her arms, Joshua needlessly apologized. "Mama, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't stop it."

He didn't see the shock and shame written across her face.

Rachel had nothing. What could she say? What words might possibly make this better? He'd always been protective of her, always been _her_ boy, and now he was angry and hurting on her behalf on top of his own pain. He wrongly blamed himself, and the burden of guilt she felt at that knowledge crushed her. Salt stung her eyes and her lids closed to keep the ashamed tears at bay.

"You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart. None of this is your fault."

He whined and entombed himself further into her embrace. Familiar songs sprung to mind from nowhere. Songs Quinn used to sing while their son grew inside of her. Then there was the small tune she'd teased Quinn for even knowing because Andrew Lloyd Webber just never seemed the blonde's style. A song they used to sing when storms came and thunder shook their home. Much like it was now.

"Try," her own voice scratched against her throat but she pushed past it, considerably slowing the original tempo like always. "Try not to get worried…" The melody disappeared, leaving her to merely whisper the lyrics that hurt too much to sing.

"Try not to turn on to problems that upset you, oh." She kissed his hair again, rocking him as her knees ached and her arms cramped. She never let go though, never loosened her hold. "Don't you know everything's all right?"

Joshua sniffled and shook his head against her. “No. It's—”

"Shhh. Yes." She nodded reassuringly, but was still so very uncertain herself. She had no idea where they were all going to end up or how they would even begin working through this.

So she took a shuddering breath and, like the good mother she was, Rachel Fabray-Berry lied to her son. "Everything's fine."

 

 


	6. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

It was raining. Still. Bad weather had plagued the East Coast all week and Quinn was sick of it. Black skies during the middle of the afternoon was not her idea of a nice summer day. It was past nine o'clock now. Night had settled in bringing rain so heavy that _New Yorkers_ were running for cover. Everyone walked with their heads down and shoulders hunched up to avoid the bullet-like drops of water.

Her feet were soaked. She prepared for the weather by wearing a pair of Wellington boots over her regular shoes but it didn't help. Puddles were too deep, and splashes too high. The night was cold and wet and all-around nasty. Not the kind of forecast one expected for the middle of August.

A hard crack of thunder made her jump and the downpour turned violent. She needed to get out of this. She was too far from her apartment to walk and there were no taxis to be had roaming the streets. Spotting an awning up ahead, she ran as best she could and huddled underneath it. Her umbrella collapsed with the push of a button as another boom rocked through the atmosphere, frightening her just a little.

Josh must be terrified.

Quinn sighed sadly at the thought of her son, though her sorrow was overrun by worry. Straight from the womb, that boy was petrified by thunderstorms and tornadoes. New York wasn't popular for the latter, but God help them all if one appeared anywhere near Ohio when they were visiting their grandparents.. Thunderstorms on the other hand were far more common nowadays.

Like any sixteen-year-old boy, he always put on a brave face and shrugged it off whenever asked if he was okay. But she knew better. He hid it well enough, but not from her. Because she did the same thing. It was like looking in a mirror sometimes and was more than easy to spot the nuances of his fear slipping through the façade.

Daniel's reaction was worse, in a way. And his “ _condition”_ (as Rachel liked to call it) certainly didn't help matters. Research, knowledge and perceptions about Autism had changed. For quite some time now it no longer existed silently in the background of society. Yet Rachel could barely say it out loud, let alone adjust to his behavior. No. That was Quinn's job since, after all, she was the one who spotted their son's differences.

When he was at daycare — and later, preschool — she had to leave work on multiple occasions to pick him up during a storm. Rachel couldn't leave rehearsals, but it was a moot point: Quinn was the only one who could deal with him when his anxiety spiked. Thankfully, Santana asked to learn how to do the same when Quinn's trips away became more and more frequent. The woman was a life saver and the only person outside of Rachel she trusted with the children.

So many times an administrative representative would contact Quinn and she'd be out the door in seconds to get her little boy. Danny would react so strongly and sometimes turbulently that the school couldn't manage him other than restricting the otherwise sweet and gentle boy in a safety hold until he calmed to a nearly catatonic state. She didn't blame them, either. When that happened, it was basically all anyone could do. And every time she'd had to do it, it destroyed a piece of her. As he grew he was harder to calm. By the time Danny was in second grade, she had a weather app constantly running in her office at NYU. There were some days when she didn't answer those school calls because she was already on her way to The Manhattan Childrens Center to get him before they were left to the last resort of restraining her son.

Automatically, the concerned mother reached for her _Morph_. Some types of technology moved too fast for her and she was still figuring out the brand new device. Normally Daniel would add mods to her latest gadgets then show her how to work them. She missed him. She hoped he was all right. She hoped Joshua was okay enough to react appropriately in case something happened. And she prayed that Ava was sleeping through this.

A frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. There were no messages. This was the first major storm since she moved out five months ago, and she instinctively was searching for Josh's texts. Yet, nothing. Disappointment and rejection warred within her. Perhaps she should be relieved they were growing up. Every storm they went to her. She'd sing and hold her sons who tried to crawl inside her skin to get away from the big noises and scary lights. She'd played with Josh's shaggy brown hair while pressing Daniel's ear to her chest and covering her hand over the other to muffle the sound of "clouds bumping together" as they all sat on the couch and watched movies. And last year, she'd stayed on facetime with them both until the storm passed by, even though it was nearly five in the morning in Tokyo and she had a lecture to give at nine.

They didn't talk much then. She watched and sat with them while Josh distracted himself with a book and occasionally commented on it, and Daniel huddled over his drafting table, drawing up blueprints and chattering away excitedly about the latest model he was going to build. He would go off on tangents about his favorite things, and architecture was his absolute favorite. Danny didn't know the social signals when other people weren't following him, or at all interested, and looking for a way out of the conversation. But he was gracious when they made excuses to walk away or tried to change the topic because he didn't understand that was what they were doing. He was a sweetheart. Which is why his response to storms was so strange and shocking. That night wasn't like that, though. Quinn followed his rapid-fire speech easily enough and giggled when he told her matter-of-factly she was yawning an awful lot because he get she was exhausted.

Sleep had been the last thing on her mind, though. She just needed to hear the boys' voices and know that they were okay just as much as they needed to hear hers to feel better.

The blank screen of her phone mocked her. Inbox: empty. Maybe they didn't need their mommy anymore.

Unable to stop herself, she opened a new message window and bit her lip as she debated whether or not to text Josh. What would she say? He refused to speak to her whenever she called in the recent months, why would today be any different? If she asked how he was — and _if_ he responded — he'd pull the macho card and pretend everything was fine. There was nothing for her to do except type one word. The single word she and Josh stumbled on to replace the three words the then fifteen-year-old was too cool to say to his _mom_ (because he was too cool to call her Mommy now), yet had no problem hollering at his mama. Often. And in public.

Five letters. Five letters and a question mark to sum up and communicate just how much she loved him and how much she missed him and was he okay? Water fell on the screen of the device; it wasn't rain. The pain of knowing her oldest son didn't want anything to do with her was crushing, but not enough to squash her hope that he might show her mercy and let her back in his life like Daniel cautiously was, like Ava did with wide open little girl arms ready for hugs.

She tapped her thumb and electronic waves bounced off satellites to carry her message onward.

The popping and snapping of hail the size of ping-pong balls scattering the streets and denting cars demanded her attention. The awning above caught them like a net and began to dip with the weight. Shoving her phone in her pocket, Quinn considered her options: stay and see if the awning gives, or make a break for the subway entrance two blocks over? The gleam of a neon sign across the street was like a lighthouse in rough seas. She grinned then evaluated the distance and how quick she'd have to run.

Thanks to therapy with Dr. Get-A-Hobby-You'll-Feel-Better, the forty-two-year-old was working out six days a week. The amazing part was not that she was on the way to returning to her pre-baby weight and fitness level, or how much better she actually did feel. The miracle was that she hadn't killed Dr. Coe for his stupid, smug grin at being proven right. Steve-o could go fuck himself sometimes.

Another round of thunder made the decision for her, and Quinn took off running through the hazardous elements. She didn't bother using the umbrella for protection. It'd just slow her down. Jumping up on the curb and narrowly missing a parking meter, she barreled through the door of her new sanctuary. She supposed she should be thankful for the world's still thriving addiction to coffee.

The old-fashioned bell dinged with the opening and closing of the door. The place was empty and very few lights were on. She shrugged off her long raincoat and hung it on an antique upright coat rack, complete with an umbrella stand. Quaint. She shook her hair and tugged off her Wellies, grimacing because they'd been a bust. Her feet were encased in a soggy pair of thin sneakers and thinner socks. One would think the doctor would know better, especially a virologist whose whole career was about preventing illnesses, but one would be wrong. Genius, Dr. Fabray. Real smart.

Shivering, Quinn straightened and took a good look about her. The coffee shop was decently sized and had small, square tables with four chairs sitting at each. Under her feet was a checkerboard patterned floor of black and white tiles that had yellowed with age. The ceiling was a drop-in made from copper tin that reflected the glow of the few hanging light fixtures, adding just a little more luminescence to the space. Drab gray walls that were maybe black and faded over time were decorated with all kinds of different artwork.

Reproductions of world famous works hung next to everything from obviously original, detailed oil paintings to hastily etched doodles on napkins that had been tacked up with tape or bubblegum, as was the case with the current masterpiece she was staring at. She chuckled and moved on. Photographs, prints, sketches, lithographs and reliefs, pastels and watercolors lined the walls and each table had some kind of small sculpture on it. One was a wire figure balancing on one foot. Another was a scarily realistic human heart made of wax.

The whole shop was a living gallery, and her spine tingled with delight and a forgotten excitement. It'd been twenty years since her art classes as an undergrad. The pre-med program was beyond stressful so her adviser suggested she find something fun as a means of relaxing. She allowed herself one course every semester, but often sneaked into the studios when she found rare moments of downtime. A few times she sat in on other classes, too, desperate to absorb as much as she could since her four years of art at McKinley were a waste. Mrs. Fraiberg's hungover mumbles and arbitrary assignments didn't do anything for her; Quinn basically taught herself in those classes.

"We're closed."

The blonde may have yelped at the manly voice behind her, but she recovered admirably. She turned and came face to face with a man of about twenty or so. He was shorter than her and had a bulky frame. A bit chubby, but stocky and solid like a bodybuilder. His eyes were a muddy brown, and his square jaw reminded her of the wooden meat mallet her mother used to pound steaks with. He looked like a bouncer. Maybe that was his night job, seeing as this place was closed so early. Although, that was more likely due to the horrid conditions outside.

The only thing that didn't fit was his hair. It was green. Very green. Not a shocking lime, or dull olive shade, either. He was sporting a head of thick, emerald hair that spiked out as if he'd been electrically shocked. It was sort of cute.

She held back her smile. It wasn't like she had much room to talk, she'd dyed her hair pink in her own act of teenage rebellion. However, the man in front of her, while young, surely was too old for that.

Finished appraising him, her salon perfected eyebrow arched and Quinn glanced at the still very much blinking _OPEN_ sign in the window. "Closed, huh?"

A plumy helmet of green hair nodded and made her think of Marvin the Martian. She wanted to tell him that but figured he was too young to get the reference. She hated to think of putting an age limit on Looney Tunes.

"Marvin" huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah. Closed."

"Your light's on. And the door's unlocked." Logic weighed in her favor.

A muscle in his jaw ticked and he kind of pouted. Quinn pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. This guy was just adorable. She wanted to pinch those reddening cheeks and ruffle his hair. He probably wasn't the type of person who'd be okay with that. She sensed boundary issues.

"I didn't get that far."

She chuckled. "Isn't that what you should do first when closing?"

Itty bitty Gumby became as spiky as his hair. " _My_ business is none of _your_ business. And my business is closed, so you need to leave." He tacked on a "please" through gritted teeth.

"All right, Greedo, give me a minute." Hazel eyes watched the man grow like a puffer fish. Or the Hulk. Shit. She really should have seen that resemblance earlier.

"Guido?" he roared in a surprisingly powerful voice. Mr. Universe's steroids must be doing their job. "Did you just call me "Guido"?"

He was really offended. Damn. Hopefully 'roid rage was not on its way.

"No, I did not." She used her reassuring doctor voice and stepped backward. "I called you "Greedo" the green guy from Star Wars."

There was absolutely no comprehension in those eyes.

"Greedo? The bounty hunter Han Solo kills in the cantina? Tell me you've seen A New Hope." Because she had. Far too many times thanks to Santana's corruption of her older son.

The man exhaled slowly and visibly relaxed. "I didn't know he had a name."

Quinn laughed in relief. That could have ended a lot differently. She wondered if this whole "getting to know herself" thing was the best idea because _she_ was turning out to be more snarky than she would have thought. Lucy had been demure and never back-talked; high school Quinn had been scary, angry and bitchy until she started dating Rachel; college Quinn was mostly serious and studious; doctor Quinn was even more serious and narrow-sighted; but mid-life crisis Quinn was a whole lot of fun so far. Even if she put her foot in her mouth a lot.

"Yeah. Sorry. I should've gone with Yoda, huh?"

Oscar the Grouch broke out laughing. Thank Jesus.

"It's better than Jabba," he smiled and his entire face changed. No longer was he the intimidating stranger who honestly frightened her a moment ago. Now he was a cherub-cheeked charmer who looked more like a mischievous elf than a grown man. He held out his hand in greeting. "For the record, my name is Brad. Brad Baladucci."

She tentatively clasped it and they shared a firm handshake. The whole "guido" moment made even more sense now and she felt worse. "Quinn Fabray-Berry. Sorry about all the green guy references." At the puppy-like tilt of his head, she clarified. "There were more in my head."

Brad nodded in understanding. "Thanks for not sharing. I still have to kick you out, but I can make you something to take with you."

The mere mention of a hot drink made her shudder from the cold she'd neglected in favor of pacifying the barista. "Thank you. That'd be great."

He went to lock the door, then shut off the neon sign and pressed the button for the automatic window blinds to fall. He led her to the counter and sparked up a machine and set about making a scalding cup of coffee just for her. The machine guzzled and garbled as it heated the soy milk and they chatted over the noise. They talked about the art all over the establishment, discovering they both took similar art courses in college and sharing a few anecdotes. So far, Brad was pretty cool. Twenty years her junior, but cool. He was the kind of guy she would have loved to hang out with when she was younger.

Just as he was handing her a reusable travel mug, a door at the back of the shop flew open and a sweaty, lanky young man wearing a pair of old jeans and nothing else strolled in before turning to his right and entering the restroom.

"Thought you were closed, Kermit?"

Brad glared at her and rubbed his hair self-consciously. "I am — the shop is. The back room is open for a private gathering."

Hazel eyes widened and she choked on her drink. Quinn may be a grown woman who had no hang-ups with sex or talking about it, but she certainly did not want to know that her new friend was holding an orgy in the back of his coffee shop. Health code violations notwithstanding, she was very much conscious about the possibility of people contracting various illnesses from participating. She did not spend her career working on the means for scientists and pharmaceutical companies to create a cure and a better treatment plans for the HIV virus just for people to be sexually irresponsible and not worry about spreading the disease because there was a nifty little shot for it now!

“Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea how unsafe that is?”

Fuming, the doctor was ready to explode and chastise Brad like he was her child, but worse, because she didn't care to spare his feelings. He rounded the counter and put his hands up to calm her.

"Whoa. Not what you think. Promise." He tried to smile but cowered before the famous Fabray glare. "It's my art group. We get together a few nights a week and have little workshops or whatever. Last week a guy came in and taught us origami. Intense."

Art? His clandestine, backroom soirée was an art group? She wanted to believe that, really. "Prove it."

A green head bobbed and Brad led her through the door marked "Employees Only". If the coffee shop were a house, then this would be the living room. It had a couch and an iSPY monitor mounted on the far wall. The space was warmly lit and a handful of people were milling about, waiting. The lighting wasn't the only thing that was warm. It was mostly due to the embarrassment she felt, but she was okay with blaming the portable heaters strategically placed throughout the room as heat rushed to Quinn's fair cheeks. It was like entering a sauna after running and rolling through snow in a bikini. An experience for which she had the incorrigible Santana Lopez to thank.

Brad introduced her to the circle of people sitting behind their easels and sketch pads. There were only six, not counting the guy she saw earlier, but she wasn't in the state of mind to register all their names. No, her brain was still berating herself for jumping to conclusions.

"You can sit anywhere," Brad said, gesturing to a worn but comfortable looking chair in the corner then to a few empty easels in the circle. "Not everyone could make it because of the weather, so you're welcome to join us. Also, you make a lot of wrong assumptions about people who enjoy multiple partner sex. For the record."

Before she could open her mouth in reply, a low and sultry voice cut in. "Ready when you are, guys."

A woman with inky black hair emerged from behind a changing screen wearing nothing but a plaid robe. It belted tightly around her waist, hinting at the figure hiding underneath. The top was loose and revealed a wide V of a smooth chest and the suggestion of more. Her eyes looked gray in this lighting and focused on Quinn, raking up and down the blonde's healthy form. Oh shit.

Quinn's face burned and her palms began to sweat which had nothing to do with the hot mug she was holding. Nudes. Tonight Brad and his Bohemians were doing nude studies. And this absolutely gorgeous woman was their subject. She couldn't look away as the woman climbed to a stagger-level platform covered by a white bed sheet.

The doctor hadn't seen a naked woman in months. And that was her wife. Her wife. She was still legally married to Rachel. And still figuring out how to get Rachel back, or just get her to talk to her. This was not on her list of things to do.

Slender hands moved to the robe's belt and pulled at the half-knot. Too quickly for Quinn, the raven haired goddess was naked. And eyeing her in a manner she knew all too well. Just because she hadn't been with another woman since she and Rachel got together did not mean she never lusted after others. It didn't mean she couldn't recognize that urge in someone else, either.

"Wanna join?"

Gulping, she shook her head no. The girl pouted and Quinn looked to Brad for help but got nothing except his back. He was sketching already, as were all the others. This wasn't good.

"Why not?"

Because she was already wet and and turned on. The woman looked enough like Rachel for Quinn to forget herself. Rachel. Her eyes fell shut as she pictured the brunette diva. She remembered the times Rachel posed for her on weekend visits during college and telling her it was homework and due on the following Monday. They both knew she was lying and their sessions always ended in love-making.

"I can't draw."

The model scoffed playfully. "Everyone can draw. It's just a question of how well." Her eyes darted to Quinn's hands, then back to her face. "I bet you're more talented than you let on."

She shouldn't be here. This was too much. She could admit her shortcomings as a person and that she was weak. However, she'd remained strong throughout her marriage. It was difficult, yes, but never — _never_ — had the constantly traveling doctor accepted any of the numerous sexual invitations from women and men around the world. Because she loved her wife. She loved her then and still loved her now. She was not about to break her vow just because they were separated. The one time Quinn had given in to neediness resulted in the creation of another life: Beth.

Beth!

This woman couldn't possibly be older than Beth, and anyone who was young enough to be her child was where Quinn Fabray-Berry drew the fucking line. The double entendre made her smirk and she knew Mona Lisa over there thought it was for her. So wrong, friend. So very, very wrong.

Now feeling particularly smug in her steadfastness, Quinn clucked her tongue then took a lengthy sip of her coffee. She placed it on the ground by the easel next to Brad and removed her shoes. The space heaters set up to keep the beautiful muse nice and toasty (and throw everyone else into heatstroke) were put to good use as she dropped her damp sneakers and socks in front of one. If she was going to do this, then she at least was going to get rid of the lingering, bone-deep chill from being out in the rain.

She picked up a stick of compressed charcoal from Brad's pile of tools lying on a cloth by his foot and rolled it experimentally in her fingers. Black smudges adorned her hand as the feel and smell of the utensil brought forth a rush of memories. Lectures, lessons and assignments, concepts and techniques, jargon, and a lifestyle she used to fantasize pursuing overwhelmed her, and the older woman's eyelids closed. This was uncanny, like an amnesiac suddenly remembering her entire life at once.

Quinn took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Her right forefinger compulsively stroked over the tip of the charcoal. Three times, as always. A lazy grin stretched her face and she rolled up her sleeves. She may have just found herself a new hobby.

"All right, Lizzie Siddal." Her smirk grew bigger at the girl's surprised expression. At least she proved to be more than just a pretty model. The woman had to be an art student to know that name. Quinn congratulated herself for knocking the seductive stare off her face and straddled the stool at what was now _her_ easel. Her gaze coasted over enticing curves and luscious skin that failed to live up to Rachel's and a lovely face that could never compare to her wife's beauty. A face that was not going to appear in this drawing, because Quinn could so easily recall Rachel's features and had every intention of replacing gray eyes with brown.

On autopilot, her arm raised and the tip of the charcoal stick touched the topmost of the pristine white pages clipped to the drawing board. Filled with a confidence she hadn't felt in the longest time, Quinn angled to the side and arched a taunting, sexy eyebrow at the young woman looking at her nervously. "Let's do this."

So for the next hour, she drew and drew and drew. Sketching, shading, blending lines together, rubbing until others faded, or darkening important features and aspects. Each time the model changed positions, Quinn and everyone else flipped to a new sheet of paper and began again.

Sweat trailed down her back and arms. She paused, stripping down to her tank top and noticing not only the young brunette's appreciative glance, but also those of two others in the room. Nice to know she looked good enough to ogle when there was a nubile, naked, modern-day Helen of Troy on display. Art group or not, her exercise regimen was staying put.

A smile blossomed on her face when the satellite radio station playing in the room switched to a classic she couldn't remember when she heard last. Not there yet, Bono, but she was getting closer.

The monitor on the wall came to life. About ten years ago, a senator from Quinn's home state pushed a bill through that gave local governments the ability to interrupt private viewing in the interest of public safety. It was originally supposed to hand over control of all media in the country and act as a data farm, but citizen outcry put a halt to that and demanded revision.

Too bad, so sad, Sue.

Now, every nearly any smart device could be activated by the emergency broadcast networks as a way to warn people of imminent danger, whatever it may be. Quinn never thought she'd long for childhood days when she had to smack the side of her parents' TV to get good reception because of course Lima Cable went down in a storm.

She glanced up once or twice but returned to the sketch pad. Bad weather, blah, danger, blah, blah, don't leave venture outside, blah blah blah, flooding, power outages, roads under water, certain homes at risk, blah blah blah blah. Her _Morph_ beeped and began playing the same thing as the monitor, as did everyone else's phones because that's just how the emergency agencies worked these days.

Reaching into her pocket, she retrieved the damn thing to shut it off, but it kept beeping at her. There was a message now. She saw who it was from and smiled so big it hurt. Josh. Her son was finally talking to her. Her thumbprint on the screen opened the conversation.

Quinn leaped out of her seat and bolted, forgetting her shirt and shoes and running out of the makeshift art room, not hearing Brad's voice calling her back. In moments, a strong hand on her shoulder stopped her at the main door.

"Where are you going? You can't go out there in this storm." He spoke slowly, rationally.

A weather siren went off in the distance, wailing and assaulting her ears. Sirens were bad. Very bad. And so damned _loud_. Daniel. She tossed Brad's arm off and pulled on her boots and coat. "I need to go. More importantly, I need to borrow your car. Oh God, tell me you have one," she pleaded.

Brad shook his head. "You could get hurt, it's dangerous out there." His face fell as her skin prickled with anger. "My insurance wouldn't cover you anyway," he tried, and failed, to joke.

" _FUCK_ your insurance, Baladucci! I'll buy you a new Goddamned car if you want! Just let me go — I _have_ to go!"

The young man stepped back and the rest of the group had bottle-necked into the shop, lurking to see what the commotion was.

"What is so important for you to go out in a storm like this, even after the broadcast? The sirens are going off, Quinn!"

" _MY SON_!" Her voice broke a little. "My children need me, Brad." She swallowed roughly, not caring that she was close to losing it in front of strangers. "Please."

Scowling, the young man fished his keys out of his pocket, clearly not liking this one bit. "It's the white one out front. I'll get my coat."

Quinn was out the door before he made it five feet from her.

The tiny car was old, so old it was a hybrid. Which meant it ran on gas, too. Thank God for small favors. Otherwise she ran the risk of it shorting and needing a jump if she drove through too much water. Which she had no qualms about. And this thing could probably run with a bit of water in the tank if its electricity blew.

She threw the car into gear and drove as fast and as safely as she could. Five miles. It just had to get her Five miles. Get her to her children. It was twenty minutes in good driving conditions, but who knew how long it would take on a night like this? It was okay. She'd make it. Quinn glanced at the glowing screen of her phone shining up from the passenger seat, Josh's message still opened and visible.

It was five letters, but not the ones that spelled their special word that she'd sent him earlier. This was an entirely different word. A word that right now scared her to hear coming from her oldest child.

_Mommy?_

 

 


	7. Baby, I'm Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback of fluffiness!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and for the kudos and comments. Feedback from all of you is what keeps me working steadily on this. Please feel free to comment, ask questions, or just say hi!

 

 

Freedom.

Sweet, blissful freedom.

It was day five of the Fabray-Berry family vacation in the bucolic world of rural New York State. The trip back from the appropriately named Main Street and the tiny grocery store was like being on set for an old TV show.

There was a throwback diner, an actual general store instead of a convenience franchise, and locally owned businesses that thrived as much as the residents. Rachel adored how everyone was so welcoming, too. The diverse community was used to the rental vacationers from the hill and was pretty accommodating toward out-of-towners. People smiled and greeted strangers as easily as they did long-time friends.

This place could be renamed from Mountain Dale to Mayberry. Truthfully, it was so much better than _The Andy Griffith Show._ Mainly because it wasn't full of old white Christian Southerners from the 1960s. It was a young town and full of life. Started as an off-shoot of the Sanctuary Movement, with a community of people of from different ethnic backgrounds and a strong LGBTQ+ presence, this was the perfect place for a multiracial, inter-religious same-sex couple to relax with their family. 

With a content smile, Rachel pulled into the driveway and the automatic gate closed behind the Chevy Libretto. It was a perky little car and she adored its name. Which may have been the deciding factor in purchasing it, but she'd never tell Quinn that. Not like she'd have to. Her wife was pretty smart. Still, they were going to need a bigger car soon.

The pace was slow and steady as she cruised along the pavement, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel to a mental sing-through of a number in her upcoming show. She shook it out of her head. Rehearsals were set to begin at the end of this getaway, but for now she wanted to focus on having fun with her family instead of work. Broadway was her dream and she loved it, yes, but if Quinn promised to leave her job at home, then she should do the same. Having her wife all to herself instead of sharing her with Dr. Jonah Saulke and the rest of the research team (though he was a lovely man and generous enough to offer them his summer home for two weeks), was Rachel's idea of Heaven right now.

Nearing the end of the serpentine driveway, she slowed the vehicle to a crawl as not only the house came into view, but also a two-and-a-half-year-old child riding out of the open garage on his lowrider tricycle. Its giant blue wheels slowed as well. Joshua half peddled, half scooted alongside the Libretto as Rachel reached him. Putting the car in park then locking the emergency brake for good measure, she rolled down her window and folded both arms on the edge of the door, resting her chin on her forearms.

Big green eyes stared up at her from a completely blank face with round, pink cheeks. "Hi Mama."

She held back the easy smile that always appeared when she saw her son and raised an eyebrow.

"Hi. What are you doing out here?" she questioned, adding "alone and unsupervised" in her head.

He blinked at her. "Go-in datebug systm."

Ahh, of course. The Dagobah System. Joshua's trusty plastic hockey stick that doubled as a light saber ever since his Tia released her inner sci-fi geek and sat him down for an extensive and in-depth tutorial on the original Star Wars saga sat tucked between his back and the upright seat of his Playskool trike. Skywalker was on a mission.

"I see," Rachel said in mock seriousness. "And just where is your mother, young Jedi?"

"N'side. Her died-ed."

Blood drained from her face and her skin went clammy. Rachel swallowed harshly. "What?" She couldn't have heard him right. "Joshua, where's Mommy?"

"Kitchnen. Ond the floor."

The brunette momentarily froze in shock. "Stay here."

She cut the engine and catapulted out of the car, not worried about Joshua. The whole ten acre property was surrounded by a seven feet tall fence and equipped with an imposing security system complete with cameras. He'd be safe. But what about Quinn? Quinn, and —

Fear ripped through her petite frame as fast feet propelled her toward her wife. Bursting through the door, she raced to the kitchen.

"Quinn?" she shouted, catching herself with both hands on the door frame. "Baby?"

There, on the other side of the island counter and in front of a sink full of popping soap bubbles, she spotted bare feet and sprawled legs as her wife lay motionless on the floor.

"Oh God — QUINN!"

Rachel rounded the counter and fell to her knees, grasping the sides of Quinn's face and shaking the blonde a bit until hazel eyes opened in surprise.

Water-pruned hands gripped hers and pried them away.

"What? What's wrong?" Quinn sat up with help. "Is it Josh? Is he okay?"

The diva's arms were around her wife, crushing her in the tightest hugged they'd ever shared. "Oh thank God!"

Rachel's chest heaved from panic and the mad dash into the house, but she managed to answer the confused woman beneath her.

"Joshua's fine. He said you died and were lying on the floor and I came running in and here you were and I was so scared, baby." One hand absently fell to Quinn's stomach and the other cupped her cheek.

A puzzled eyebrow arched up and Quinn eyed her skeptically. "Josh is okay?

Rachel nodded. "He's fine."

Her gaze scrutinized the taller woman's form searching for injuries before looking about the room for evidence of an accident — anything to explain why her wife had been flat on her back in the kitchen. "What are you doing down here? Did you slip? Are you hurt?"

Quinn shook her head, a few wisps of hair falling from her ponytail onto her face. Rachel brushed them away unconsciously, needing to touch Quinn. Needing to confirm she was here and alive. "No. Josh and I were playing."

"Playing?" Disbelief covered Rachel's features. "Playing what?"

"Star Wars," Quinn said plainly. "I was doing dishes, but he wanted to be Luke Skywalker and I had to be his family. Then I found out he meant his burned-to-a-crisp-by-the-Empire family, so I had to play dead for him to come home and find me." She looked around, stretching up a little and trying to spot if their son was on the opposite side of the counter.

Rachel blasted out a half hysterical but wholly relieved laugh. A gruff, loud, grateful laugh.

"Really?" She wiped at her eyes, wet from both terror and now humor. "Well I hate to break it to you, Uncle Owen, but Luke Skywalker is halfway down the drive on his Big Wheel."

Hazel eyes narrowed. "That little shit."

Another, gentler laugh bubbled up and she pulled her annoyed wife closer. Pressing their foreheads together, she calmed as the adrenaline gradually dissipated but the worry remained. "I was so scared, Quinn," she whispered.

The hand resting on the blonde's belly stroked circles over smooth skin after slipping under an old, faded McKinley High t-shirt. Quinn kissed her cheek and reached to intertwine their fingers.

"I'm okay." She held their joined hands tightly to her abdomen. " _We're_ okay."

"Yeah?" Rachel sniffled.

Whispering, Quinn nodded. "Yeah."

Tender kisses sprinkled Rachel's face and coaxed forth a faint smile. Soon the tiny pecks turned into something more. Their lips and tongues met with unwavering reassurance and physical affirmation of what Rachel intellectually knew was true, but still feared may not be: everything was all right. Quinn hummed against Rachel's mouth and they eased apart — their faces happy, their eyes shining, and their hands melded together upon the doctor's bump of a stomach.

"I'm not going anywhere, Rach."

Suddenly hauled to her feet, she was enveloped in warm, secure arms. The shaken actress exhaled deliberately and settled against her wife, laying additional kisses to her lips and banishing thoughts of the unspeakable.

"You're never going to lose me, baby." Quinn took Rachel's hand and fiddled with the ring on her finger, a silly smile spreading across her beautiful, full face. Hugging her closer, the taller woman rested her lips against Rachel's ear. "Baby, I'm yours…"

Untrained, out of formal practice, but still sweetly smoky, Quinn's voice carried on breathy whispers and Rachel didn't care if a few sharps or flats might weasel their way in because her wife was singing to her.

"And I'll be yours, until stars fall from the sky." Silky lips drifted up to kiss her temple. "Yours, until the rivers all run dry."

She sighed and snuggled further, absolutely loving the impromptu serenade but unable to refrain from teasing the usually serious doctor just a little. "You're so cheesy. Mine _._ But cheesy."

Quinn jumped back, excited. "Ooh, speaking of food! Where's my bacon, woman?"

"Ugh!" She was aghast. "For someone who once accused me of setting back the feminist movement fifty years, you're awfully quick to objectify me."

"I'm good at it, too." Quinn waggled her eyebrows, then spanked her.

Alas, she married a scoundrel. Their moment of sweetness evaporated and Rachel deflated. "Yes, I got you your strips of butchered swine."

"It's not just for me, you know," the cad defended.

Cravings couldn't be helped, true, but she didn't have to like it. However, ethics and religious beliefs were bypassed in favor of being happy Quinn was all right. Happy their children were all right. Easing down to her knees, Rachel lifted Quinn's shirt and planted a small kiss on her stomach. "You're mine, too, _boychickel_."

A soft chuckle sounded from above. Loving hands met her shoulders and guided her to her feet. "So sure it'll be another boy, huh?"

The shorter woman pecked her pregnant wife on the lips before nuzzling into Quinn's neck. "Sshhh. I'm psychic."

Quinn smiled against her cheek and Rachel wanted time to cease, just let them have this forever.

The slap of bare feet pitter-pattering restarted the clock, and Joshua galloped toward the stainless steel refrigerator, smearing tiny fingerprints all over as he tried to open it. He turned to them with expectant, curious eyes.

"What doin'?"

It would have been inappropriate for her to say she was practicing phenomenal self-control by not yelling at him for saying his mommy was dead because he wouldn't understand what he did or how much it upset her. Instead she sighed and shook her head. "Nothing, sweetie."

She stayed in Quinn's embrace as they rocked together for no reason other than they could; it was comforting and natural for them to cuddle into one another. "Do you need something, Bubbas?"

"I have chocklit milk?" he asked, complete with a beguiling grin and a "pease" at the end.

Ever the one to indulge him, Quinn tried to wiggle free from Rachel's hold to get his sippy cup from the fridge, but she was having none of that.

She held her wife fast and answered their son. "Yes, you may have chocolate milk with lunch, Joshua. Please make sure your blankey and hockey stick are in your bed, first."

He didn't have stuffed animals. He'd shunned them all and took naps with the miniature piece of sporting equipment. And she did not want to have to go looking for those items later when World War Only Child was on the horizon.

A knowing frown puckered his face. Rachel remained impervious. The silent exchange between mother and son stilled the air of the room. Both knew what was coming after lunch. And both knew that he could throw the biggest tantrum he wanted but he _was_ going down for a nap. Most importantly, both knew that Joshua never failed to listen to his mama and would cave. Eventually. After he had a fit.

Unhappy and unafraid to show it, he put his little fists on his nonexistent hips and stomped his foot forcefully.

Brown eyes wanted to roll so badly, and Rachel dared not acknowledge how much he resembled her high school self, and perhaps her Broadway self. Their staring contest lasted three more seconds before Joshua inhaled an enormous breath to explode and tell her just how upset he was about going "sleepy-bye" once he finished eating. Detonation in 5, 4, 3, 2 —

"I dunno, baby. I think Josh is too big for naps now."

Bewildered, the brunette gaped at her wife. Did she not just see il divo about to pull an Enola Gay and drop a Terrible Twos bomb of colossal proportions?

"Ex-excuse me?" she stammered, positively baffled. "Of course, he needs a nap, Quinn! Look at him." She jerked her head in the boy's direction.

The boy who was rubbing his eyes and yawning through his ire.

"Nope," Quinn said, popping the "p". "He's fiiiinne." She sniffed haughtily. "I think you're wrong."

Oh screw that, Quinn was not about to pull this shit.

"I beg your pardon?"

That hazel stare locked on to hers then shot to Joshua before returning to meet appalled brown eyes. "I. Think. You're. Wrong."

Oh. Well then.

Rachel stood up straight and dramatically jerked away, stepping back and crossing her arms. "I. Know _._ I'm. Right."

Joshua moved closer, looking back and forth between the two of them, tired and confused. "What doin'?"

Quinn swiftly picked up her cue. "Nothing, Joshy. Just telling Mama she's wrong."

"And I'm telling Mommy that I'm right."

"Wrong," the blonde goaded.

"Right."

"Wro-ong." Was sing-songing it really necessary?

She chimed back just as childishly. "Riii-iiight."

"Wrong!"

"No!" Joshua's voice cut off Rachel's volley. "Mama right!"

"Oh?" Quinn leaned down to Joshua's level. "Your Mama says you need a nap. Is that true?"

"Yes! Nap! I gon nap, Mommy!"

Nodding with a melodramatic sigh, Quinn bowed out gracefully. "Okay Joshy. You're right—Mama's right. You may take a nap after lunch. Now go get blankey."

He stomped his foot again. Surely out of pure spite. Then the imp scampered off to retrieve his designated sleepy-time supplies.

Objective achieved, meltdown avoided, Rachel released a sigh. She was too drained to face-off with a toddler after her earlier shock.

"Would you look at that?" The triumphant smirk on the blonde's face should not be sexy. Shouldn't be, but so was.

"Well played, Mommy."

Darkening green eyes twinkled with victory. "Not bad yourself, Mama." Quinn winked.

Rachel blushed. "Well, I _am_ an actress, you know." A single step later she was back in her wife's embrace. "And you're a fantastic scene partner."

"Mmm, I'm a fantastic partner in other ways, too."

She shivered as Quinn's voice caressed her. Yes, Rachel was very well aware of exactly how fantastic Quinn could be — in all ways. Jumping from a sharp nip to her ear, she swatted the blonde's arm. "How on Earth are you turned on right now?"

The hum of a sexy chuckle rumbled against her neck as Quinn progressed lower, answering while leaving open mouth kisses along the diva's throat. "One, I'm pregnant."

Okay. She had to give her that. Quinn damn near broke her while carrying Joshua. After all that, Rachel re-forgave Quinn her bitchiness during their sophomore year when she was pregnant with Beth. "And two?"

"Arguing with you riles me up. Always has."

"Goodness, so much of high school makes sense now," she muttered sarcastically.

A hot tongue licked from Rachel's collar bone up to trace the shell of her ear. "Glad you finally caught on, baby. Only took ten years, but good job."

"Twelve!" she squeaked as enthusiastic hands slid from her waist to paw and knead her bottom.

Quinn shrugged and kissed the underside of her jaw. "Ball park."

"You "ball park" how long we've been together?" She huffed.

"Oh all the time."

She was supposed to be upset, but a wet tongue was swirling down the column of her throat again and one hand slipped up her shirt, spanning the small of her back and drawing her nearer to her wife. The other kept roaming over her backside. "You're awful."

"I'm adorable. And horny."

Her fists bunched in the soft cotton of her wife's shirt as she let her head fall back, silently encouraging more kisses. And licks. Oooh, and bites. Arousal teemed through her veins as manicured nails dug in to her ass and her hips jerked forward. "Quinnnn."

"Seems you are, too."

Rachel was not about to protest that, especially since her mouth had captured Quinn's in a fervid kiss and she pushed her back against the sink, fastening her arms around the taller woman's waist. Tongues sparred, hands strayed from relatively safe zones and tapered fingers tweaked Rachel's nipple through her shirt and bra before they moved on, popping open buttons to get rid of everything altogether. She tugged at Quinn's ponytail, anxious to bury her hands in thick hair and direct that talented mouth everywhere on her body she pleased.

Then Quinn was inside her shirt, in her bra, cupping her breast in one very experienced hand. Rachel didn't waste time mirroring the action. Quinn's breasts were sore from pregnancy and it would pain more than pleasure her. As an alternative, she went right to the main event. She freed the metal button on the blonde's jeans and maneuvered her way inside.

While often a complete bitch, sometimes pregnancy hormones could be sort of awesome. They both moaned as her fingers met wetness and stroked sleek lips. Quinn gripped the edge of the counter with one hand then scraped the nails of her other down Rachel's chest and sternum. They broke apart, panting against each other's mouths, yet gathered enough breath to have a mostly coherent conversation.

"We — bedroom." A wayward fingertip dipped inside scalding, silky liquid.

"Yessss." There were whimpers and searching hips. "Josh?"

"Probably fell asleep. Can check".

Quinn nodded and kissed her again. Rachel's rational mind failed to restrain her movements, and she slipped fully into her wife's center. "Baby, you feel so fu — "

"What doin'?"

— uuccckkkking hell.

Horny, disheveled, and taken by surprise, the mothers went completely immobile. Rachel was knuckle deep in her wife while their son unknowingly interrupted really hot, spur-of-the-moment kitchen sex. Twat swatted by a two-year-old. He'd probably be traumatized now.

Her cheeks aflame, the winner of the Clarence Derwent Award for Most Promising Female, choked. Never had she known stage fright, but she imagined this was how it must feel. She wasn't breathing; sweat beaded her brow; her heart clobbered against her ribcage, while Quinn's eyes were far too amused.

Pale fingers blithely righted Rachel's bra and buttoned her shirt. They slid down her arms, one falling to her wrist and gently removing her hand from inside Quinn's — er, Quinn. They both shuddered and mourned the separation, but the blonde was strangely first to recover.

"Ready for your nap, Joshy?" She pecked the brunette on the lips then casually slipped out of the embrace.

He spoke through a yawn. "Chocklit milk?"

"After you wake up. Then we'll have lunch and play outside," Quinn quickly rewrote today's schedule.

There was grunting as Quinn lifted the boy and Rachel blew out a shaky, guilty breath. Her son just caught her with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Seep bye, Mama."

She finally turned and gave a small wave. "Sleepy bye, _bubbeleh_. I love you."

"Luv you."

He tucked himself into the blonde's shoulder, clutching his One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish print blankey under his chin.

"Let's go, Bubbas. Your mamas have to take a nap, too." Quinn rubbed his back and fired off a smirk at Rachel, then carried the boy upstairs to his room across the hall from theirs.

Rachel counted her breaths then was quick to get the groceries into the house and put away. Twenty minutes ago she'd been terrified out of her mind, afraid for her wife's safety. Quinn was okay. Joshua was okay. The baby was okay. Everything was okay. Except for the painful ache between her legs and the mad desire to love her wife until they collapsed breathless, sweating, and tangled in each other's arms. That needed remedying right away.

She listened on the stairway for the faint lullaby to end and Joshua's door to close.

Seconds later, she heard Quinn's quiet, "Now, are you ready for your nap, baby?"

Instead of speaking, she simply headed up the stairs to see a beautiful woman wearing nothing but a bra and jeans standing outside the master suite. With a grin, she watched Quinn undo the button on her jeans and walk backward into the bedroom. Rachel followed, stripping off her wrinkled shirt on the way. Nap time sounded splendid.

 

 


	8. Here Comes That Rainy Day Feeling Again

 Countless blocks, multiple detours due to closed and flooded roads and passageways, five red lights, two inches of rain per hour, and one freshly abandoned little white hybrid later, Quinn was running down the darkened East 49th Street in Midtown. Running like the Devil Himself was chasing her to get to the restored Brownstone house up ahead. Running because, quite literally, come Hell or high water, she was getting to her kids.

 The doctor was convinced her lungs contained more water than air as her chest heaved with each breath. Her heart battering against her ribs, her blurring vision, the burning in her muscles — it was all irrelevant. Never did the middle-aged woman think she'd be grateful to hear the abusive, sharp voice of Sue Sylvester in her head: Faster, Fabray! Move your ass!

 Today was the day she would've made that bitter old battle-ax proud. The United States Marine Corps Physical Fitness qualifications all McKinley High cheerleaders had to meet under the tutelage of the now-senator were laughable when it came to the capabilities of an alarmed mother powered by sheer adrenaline and a primal response to her children in danger. Screw the boot camp requirements; she ran just a little over a mile in about ten minutes. In a thunderstorm. Soaked through to her skin. With three inches of water covering the sidewalks. Forget the Marines. She could be a fucking Green Beret.

 If she didn't have a heart attack first.

 What the hell was she thinking?

 Simple fact: she wasn't. Quinn's higher mental faculties shut down the minute she realized her kids needed her and just how bad the weather conditions really were. Pure maternal instinct took over instantly, and she had to get to her babies by any means necessary. Including a friendly felony like Grand Theft Auto. She wasn't joking when she told Brad the Barista she'd buy him a new car. Which was good for him since the vehicle was now stuck in a very large puddle near Bryant Park and 5th Ave. No engine, regardless whether it was electric, hybrid, or old-fashioned gasoline could function when it was submerged in water.

 Lightning as bright as dawn illuminated the night, and she saw how close she was to the four-story townhouse they bought six years ago. Lights were on. They still had power. Mildly relieved, Quinn swallowed down her heart, warily hopping the waist high wrought iron gate sealing the residence away from the sidewalk then taking the stone steps two at a time. The motion sensors were triggered and lights and more sirens went off.

 Sliding to the left of the door, her hands searched over the scratchy exterior of the house then she pressed her right thumb to the smooth surface in front of her. The faux brick touchscreen shimmered and a scrolling ticker at the bottom warned that the system would shut down in seconds unless proper identification was made. She lined up her hazel gaze and stared at the blinking red dot in the center of the screen.

_Retinal scan complete. Authorization verified. Access granted. Welcome home, Quinn._

 Another time she'd have been pissed at the computerized voice for saying that. Instead the worried mother was grateful her estranged wife hadn't reset the system and blocked her in the five months this house hadn't been Quinn's home.

 Silence prevailed. Before the security unit could camouflage itself again, Quinn was in the foyer, leaning against the closed and locked front door. Calling out her kids' names, the drenched woman carefully jogged through the first floor. No one answered. Again, she took the stairs two at a time, slipping only once. The intention was to bypass the dark hall of the second story and charge directly to the third floor where the kids' bedrooms were, but the light coming from underneath a door across from the stairwell stopped her mid-step.

 She didn't hesitate in turning the knob and barreling into what used to be her office. "Hello?"

 The standing lamp in the corner shone brightly next to the desk she'd spent hours poring over case studies and documenting trial results for the FDA to review. Hours she hadn't spent with her children. On the surface of said desk were a few battery-operated candles ready to be clicked on if necessary. There was a handheld satellite radio, real candles and a box of kitchen matches, three untouched water bottles and…an open bag of contraband Oreos next to empty glasses with telltale milky residue. Yeah. They were here.

 "You guys?" She grunted, clearing her throat and not giving a damn that she was already getting sick.

 Thirty-six inches of a human missile launched from behind the giant mahogany desk and Ava crashed into Quinn, gripping her thighs and pressing her chubby cheek into sopping wet jeans. "Mommy!"

 Immediately she lifted the frightened child and hugged her tightly to her chest. Neither minded that Quinn's rain-drenched clothes were soaking through her daughter's thin pajamas. "I'm here, baby."

 She cradled a head of long, thick hair as Ava buried her face into her mommy's neck. Quinn glanced about, seeking out her sons. Another dark head of hair popped up from behind her desk and a strong, cleft chin rested on the flat top.

 "Hi Josh."

 The teen was stone-faced and his jaw clenched.

 "Where's your brother?"

 Apprehensive green eyes cast downward and Quinn understood.

 "Here, come take Avy." The little girl in question furiously shook her head. Quinn spoke reassuringly, looking away from her approaching son. "It's okay, Vee. I'm all gross and wet, though. Can you help Josh find Mommy some dry clothes?"

 Being handed off to her brother, Ava snuggled into him but looked mournfully at Quinn.

 "I'll be right here when you get back. I'm not leaving." She kissed the little girl's cheek and reached for Josh, but he turned on his heel and was out the door in seconds. Quinn let it go. He could be as mad as he pleased. Just because he messaged her didn't mean he was going to play nice. Having sent the text at all was likely eating away at his inherited Fabray pride.

 Like she would toward an abused, sleeping animal, Quinn tip-toed near the enormous desk. The squelching of her boots each time the soles met the carpet was cartoonish but there was no humor in it. She lowered to all fours before crawling around the furniture.

 There, hiding in the cubicle of free space underneath the large desk, was Daniel. His legs were pulled to his chest and his cheek rest on the tops of his knees. He would have been rocking back and forth if he had the room. The frightened boy looked so helpless and lost squeezed into the confining area. It made sense that he chose here, though. Danny used to play under her desk all the time. He liked enclosed spaces; they made him feel safe. Being by his Mommy was a big factor in that feeling, too. The blonde's heart ached.

 "D?" she whispered not wanting to startle him. He hadn't focused his glazed eyes on her so she wasn't sure if he knew she was there. "D, it's Mommy."

 He didn't blink.

 Slowly, but not hesitantly, Quinn reached her hand out to touch Daniel's arm. No reaction. He was rigid and unconscious of his surroundings, and had withdrawn into himself as a means of escaping the storm. It'd been a long time since he'd done this.

 Drained, she sat back in observation. He'd grown in the time she hadn't seen him. Quinn wasn't large by any standard, but she couldn't fit under her desk without some discomfort, and five months ago Daniel had surpassed her height by three inches. Now the thirteen-year-old looked even taller, cramped as he was. He also looked heavier and wider. From this perspective, he reminded her of Gulliver among the Lilliputians. He was going to be so sore if she didn't get him out of there soon. She hated to think how long he'd been hiding here in the first place.

 Quinn tried again. "Daniel? Baby, it's time to come out, all right? You're safe now. I'm here and the storm is passing. You're safe." The rain was still heavy, but hopefully the lessening thunder and fewer lightning flashes coming through the windows meant the massive gale was finally on its way out and not just in a lull.

 Still no response.

 "It's okay to be scared. I was scared, too." She scootched closer. "I was worried about you. And Josh, and Avy. I came to make sure you were safe and I'm so happy you are."

 "Why'd you go away?"

 Brown eyes stared off into space and a man's voice came from her son's body. Yet, the element of raw fear found only in children was so clear.

 Progress. Painful, but progress nonetheless. It was also a bargaining chip. Quinn held out her hand. "We can talk about it, but you have to come out of there."

 "Why?"

 "Because I'm too old to sit on the floor like this," she tried for a smile.

 Daniel's attention finally landed on her. "You're forty-two."

 "Yeeeaaahh," she stretched out the word, not sure where this was going. Age was not something Quinn enjoyed being reminded of.

 "The average life expectancy for a woman is over ten years more than it was when you were my age."

 Quinn frowned. Currently, that age was holding steady at ninety-six. But in reality there were so many centenarians these days that that number needed to be reevaluated. Absently, she wondered if the population would ever plateau as statistics once implied. "And?"

 "The difference between forty-two and ninety-six is greater than the difference between the former and eighty-four which is double your age, so you can't be too old if you haven't even lived half your life yet."

 Hazel eyes probed into suddenly lucid brown orbs. She could see it in her head just like she knew he could: 84 ÷ 2 = 42 but 96 ÷ ½ = 48, so she had six more years until she reached the half-way mark of the average age of death presently predicted for the modern woman.

 Like most people with Aspergers, Daniel was very literal. She knew only meant that she logically couldn't be old. But that's not what she heard.

 She hadn't lived half her life yet.

 Did that mean she'd lived a half-life so far?

 By professional standards, certainly not. She'd accomplished things people worked toward for their entire lives and was recognized for it by the medical community worldwide. It'd been dumb luck sprinkled on top of years of hard work and built on the existing research of her mentor, but his passing left her in charge of the project so it was her name on the patent of discovery. Each lecture she credited him, but people didn't care about the late Dr. Jonah Saulke like they did Dr. Quinn Fabray simply because Quinn could answer their questions and lend her supposedly famous name to their organizations' points of prominence.

 By personal guidelines, it was a different story. When Jonah died and she took over eight years ago, less time was spent with her family and more was spent at the lab or in her office then later traveling. All this meant that she missed important milestones in the lives of her wife and children. And it was always the same pattern: two or three months in New York working endlessly then flying out for a week or sometimes more because everyone wanted her to expound on the advancements made by her and her team and how the world no longer had to live in complete fear of HIV and AIDS. It felt good, too, intoxicating. She'd gotten recognition and gained a kind of celebrity status.

 She snorted. Her name might turn heads among her colleagues, but the random person on the street wouldn't have a clue who she was. Not in the way that same person could easily rattle off a few hit songs and at least three movies starring Rachel Berry.

 "Daniel, where's Mama?"

 Shrugging in such close quarters must've felt as awkward as it looked. "Josh said she was on her way."

 Quinn nodded quietly then sat up on her knees to check the time on the desk clock. It was just past midnight. There was no reason she could think of for Rachel to be out so late, or to have gone out at all in this kind of weather.

 The whispered slide of the opening door drew her attention to the entering Joshua and Ava. The little girl seemed calmer and walked toward her with an armful of t-shirts. Quinn cocked an amused eyebrow then was shut down by Josh coldly tossing her a pair of sweatpants.

 "They're mine. There was nothing else." His words were very clear. Nothing else because she took it with her when she left.

 She forced a smile in thanks anyway. If he didn't want to deal with her right now, fine. His siblings were of a higher priority.

 "You hafta pick out a shirt," Ava announced.

 "I do, do I?" Ava gave a very serious nod and Quinn hid her smile. "Why didn't you choose one for me?"

 "Betuhhhzz!" The four-year-old huffed and rolled her eyes. "Mama says we hafta share 'less it's a special toy. But I don't know if hers shirts is special or not."

 The woman was torn between laughing at her daughter's obsessive observance of rules and regulations and cringing in fear of wearing something that belonged to Rachel. Not because she didn't want to. Night after night, she longed for the scent of rich vanilla perfume mixed with the lingering proof of an unhealthy addiction to roasted coffee, plus the headiness that was Rachel herself. No, it was because the diva might flip out that Quinn was in the house at all, and wearing her shirt to boot.

 They hadn't seen each other since the taxi cab goodbye, but she knew somewhat how Rachel was doing. According to Santana, Rachel teeter-tottered between angry and depressed. The only times she was happy were when the kids were around or when she was working. She didn't know exactly what the actress was doing, but she did know that rehearsals were usually during the day from ten in the morning to six-ish at night. It's not like Rachel had called to tell her any good news about possible shows, either. She'd interpreted Quinn's initial silence as the new order and had no plans of crossing the boundaries of communication.

 Quinn kicked herself for that one. Because of that, the only reason she had contact with the kids was due to Santana's assistance and Rachel's assumed lack of objection. Six weeks ago, Auntie Tana became a go-between, but only Ava wanted to see Quinn. Daniel had barely begun talking to her again, just phone conversations a few times a week. While she missed the boys, the last few weekends with Avy were wonderful. They were like tourists. There was so much of the city to be seen. They went to Central Park Zoo, caught a free children's concert in Madison Square Park and two weeks ago at F.A.O. Schwartz, they spent time together laughing and playing while Quinn remembered what it was like to be free and started truly learning about the unique little person she'd missed out on for the last year when everything with Rachel went from simmering resentment to full on boiling anger and frustration, then to numb resignation.

 However, Josh refused to have anything to do with her. She couldn't blame him. She was the one who made the final break in their collapsing family, and the teenager had every right to hate her the same way she'd hated Russell for doing the same when she was that age.

 Floundering against her tears, Quinn tucked a strand of hair behind Ava's ear then thumbed away the dark cookie crumbs at the corners of her mouth. "How about you choose a shirt for me and stay with your brothers while I take a shower and change?"

 Little shoulders raised and dropped in a shrug, and the girl pawed through the mountain of shirts. Hoisting herself off the floor, Quinn stretched before bending and looking at Daniel from upside down. "Ready to get out, D?"

 Passively, he gripped her extended hand and wormed his way into the open, standing.

 Quinn gaped. This could not be her son. The boy she saw months ago was closer to Josh's height than hers, but now was definitely taller than his brother. Nearly half a head taller. His shoulders had always been broader — his frame was rectangular whereas Josh's was cut in the athletic, inverted triangle shape — but he looked much larger than the sixteen-year-old who just returned to the office, and enormous compared to the son she said goodbye to all those weeks ago. The kid was huge. She'd given birth to Paul Bunyan.

 He moved, bulky and awkward. Daniel was always a little clumsy and larger than his friends, but this growth spurt was likely going to be harder on him than it would've on other boys his age. Especially since he didn't behave like boys his age and never had. She frowned. Danny would soon be fourteen, but his friends and classmates from school were just turning twelve because he'd been held back in school at Quinn's request.

 Rachel had been furious with her, arguing that their son was already "different" and didn't need another reason for others to pick on him. Quinn reasoned that it was unfair to place such high social expectations on him while attending a new school that was not specifically geared toward students who fell within the autism spectrum. Age-wise, and now definitely physically, their son was a teenager. But emotionally and socially, Danny functioned anywhere between nine and twelve years old. It was this that made it so easy for him to bond with Ava: he acted more closely to the age she actually was. (Some days, however, Rachel Jr. was four going on forty.) Daniel had matured on schedule, though. Realistically, by the time he got to eighteen and legally became an adult, he'd be at the level of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old.

 Of course, there were the areas where the boy far surpassed his peers and was a certifiable genius. His IQ wasn't off the charts, but damn close. And his mathematical skills were astounding. If she thought he could handle it, she'd tell him to drop out of school and get his GED, breeze through college in maybe two years then go to grad school for his Ph.D. in Engineering before his twenty-first birthday. Daniel could probably get multiple doctorates if he felt like it. He'd just likely be living at home still because of how hard it was for him to understand social interactions and adapt and function in certain situations.

 God, Rachel would kill her for even thinking that.

 T-shirts flagged in front of her face.

 "Does you want this one?" Ava asked, coming to stand by her brother. Danny bent sideways and tilted down to pat the top of her head, his other hand never leaving Quinn's.

 She looked at her gentle giant of a son and smiled. The kids were safe. Josh wasn't speaking to her, Danny was a lumberjack, and Ava was pouting because the blonde hadn't answered. But they were okay. So Quinn was okay.

 Common sense presented itself and she opted out of showering during a thunderstorm and settled for thoroughly toweling off and tossing her clothes in the dryer in the basement. Wearing Josh's sweats and Rachel's Wicked revival tank top, Quinn trudged up the stairs to find Ava sitting on the top step.

 Danny had taken her to change out of her own rain-dampened-by-proxy clothes, replacing her moon and stars pajama set with a Disney Princess nightgown. The media conglomerate was scraping for ideas, but had a blockbuster a few years ago. Tweeked and centered on the deliverance of the Jews in Persia, it was told through the eyes of Hadassah before she became Queen Esther. It was a little darker and more similar to the features released nearly a hundred years ago than to the sweet, lighthearted damsels and singing animals Quinn grew up with. Its animated heroine also happened to be voiced by one Rachel Berry. There really was no escape — the universe was officially punishing her with haunting reminders of her wife.

 "It's late, Avy. Are you ready for bed?" she asked, picking the child up off the floor. The stuffed Sneetch in her grasp biffed Quinn in the face. Weirdly enough, it was comforting.

 "Can you cuddle me?" Mini-Rachel absolutely played up the pitiful timbre of her voice, but Quinn agreed just the same as Danny appeared from nowhere.

 "Can-can I come, too?" Despite his size and age, he was so young.

 He was also not too fond of being touched. It was one of the quirks about his response to certain stimuli. Breast feeding hadn't lasted long with him. Touch just wasn't something he liked unless he was scared. However, hugs were permitted. And when Quinn sat on the couch reading the latest literature on virology and new developments in the field, Danny would come and sprawl across her lap, lying on his belly while she absently petted his back like a kitten. Outside of Ava's constant companionship, he didn't much care for contact.

 Refusing his request never occurred to her. "Of course, D."

 Her faced twisted in deliberation. She planned to crash on the couch but that was out. And neither of their beds would fit all three of them. Judicious eyes glanced down the hall to the master suite. It belonged to Rachel now, but Quinn made an executive decision the brunette would just have to deal with. "C'mon."

 The trio crawled into the massive bed; Quinn was bookcased in the middle for optimal snugging. The size contrast between her son and daughter was comical, but the laughter wouldn't come. She didn't have it in her after tonight's ordeal. The exhausted mother secured an arm under Daniel's head, curling to stroke the loose swirl of his curls. Ava was mostly on top of her, leaving Quinn to drape a hand over her small back and keep her close. The sense of peace falling about her overwhelmed the doctor.

 A rough cough from the doorway cut through the calm. Quinn's eyes fluttered open and she made out the shape of her other son in the darkness. "Josh?"

 There was some awkward shuffling then, "I just wanted to make sure you — they — were all right, you know?" He took his duty as man of the house very seriously. Too bad Quinn knew he was bluffing.

 Ava piped up. "Come cuddle."

 Now Josh, Joshua Hiram Fabray-Berry, was the snugglebug. His hair had to be played with. His cheeks had to be brushed. He had to be held at every opportunity. And his body had to be tucked tightly to hers when she sang songs and read stories during bedtimes long since past.

 "Please?" Ava's pout was audible. And no one could say no to the miniature diva-in-training when she broke out the fragile and forlorn child routine. Manipulation was an art, and she was a master.

 Josh huffed as if he hadn't been seeking the invitation and moved to the bed. Like any big brother, he shoved Danny closer to the center of the mattress, forcing Quinn and Avy over as well. Immediately, the old nursery rhyme Ten in the Bed came to mind and the "roll over, roll over" hook elicited a giggle.

 "S'funny?" Daniel was nearly out.

 "Nothing, D." The smile lurking within her finally surfaced. "Just happy to be hom — here." She caught herself just in time. Saying it would hurt more because it wasn't true. This wasn't home anymore.

 If she were honest with herself, it likely wouldn't be again. No matter how much she wished it could be. It was a marvel the kids were warming to her after what she'd done, but the possibility of Rachel forgiving her yet again was unrealistic. The last few years, her wife criticized Quinn's inabilities to be a good spouse or mother. The fighting escalated. The resentment built. And the doctor's guilt ate at her like the three-headed dog of Hades gorged on those who dared to flee the Underworld. The worst part is that she hadn't realized her mistakes until it was too late. For that and other reasons, she felt deserving of this Hell.

 But she was going to capture whatever sliver of Heaven she could reach. "I'm happy to be with you guys, that's all."

 Quinn kissed the top of the now sleeping Daniel's head and stretched her arm lengthwise as her hand hunted for the shaggy mop of hair covering his brother's head. Josh was at the edge of the bed but subtly scooted closer to meet her fingertips. Tears pooled in her eyes. Finally, she had all her babies. The serenity she felt earlier was nothing compared to the soul-completing euphoria engulfing her now.

 "Mommy?"

 "What, Vee-Vee?"

 Tiny hands weakly fisted the fabric of the tank top Quinn wore and their owner pathetically asked, "Will you sing me songs?"

 Holding back a chuckle and an eye roll was more strenuous than she would have guessed. Ava had learned from the best. Yet, she smiled even as she drew a total blank. Her mind was done for the night. "What do you want to hear?"

 Her question was met with silence. Danny was conked, and Avy was drifting. Maybe she wouldn't have to sing. She wasn't anywhere near as good as their Mama – no one on the damn planet was – so that had to excuse her from butchering their ears. But before she could relax and hand herself over to sleep, a soft, quiet husk cut through the dark.

 "Sunny." The rasp in Josh's voice was her undoing. "Sing Sunny."

 For the first time tonight, he let himself crack. He was vulnerable and she was in no position to reject such a beautiful gift or deny him the song he loved as a child. She was finishing the first verse before she realized it.

 "The dark days are gone, and the bright days are here, my sunny one shines so sincere." Hazel-green eyes found their match and Quinn smiled through her tears, whispering their arbitrary five letter word that was everything but trivial. "Oh, Sunny one so true, I love you."

 Neither remembered finishing the song as they succumbed to sleep. Nor did they know about the tearful woman slumped against the hallway wall, hiding.

 Hiding…and hating.

 

 


	9. Where Do You Go?

This was absurd.

And not at all how she planned her day would go.

Rachel lay stretched on the gray suede couch, feet crossed at the ankles and both arms thrown over her eyes. She was tired and frustrated and exhausted.

She loved her job. It paid well enough to shock her middle-class, Midwestern standards, but she never questioned that she was worth it. And while this life wasn't exactly what she originally envisioned, it was good and she loved the magic and theatricality of the industry. She did not, however, by any means enjoy the technical aspects of it.

Rachel Berry was a performer. Born for the stage and later instructed for the screen, the diva was on display her entire life. First by compulsion and choice, then by decree. From the age of nineteen, she'd traveled the country with Broadway touring companies of various shows when she should have been finishing her undergrad studies. Instead, she dropped out of NYU's Tisch School for the Arts and embraced the troupe acting experience. After her "big break" on Broadway, she'd been in high demand by theatre directors all over New York, Chicago, and Toronto and took roles outside of Manhattan while she could. It wasn't until after she was married that she stayed close to home—which turned out to be everything she'd ever wanted, to a point. Then, shortly after Daniel turned three, LA called with an offer too good to ignore so Rachel flew out to California with all the naïveté of an ingénue in a Charles Dickens' novel. The Pollyanna attributes she possessed in real life were a boon in the beginning: Hollywood jaded her far less quickly than most others in the business.

However, that was a decade ago and cynicism owned her now. She'd shot from movies, TV, less than a handful of albums (not counting cast recordings), and benefit concerts for some time now, and Rachel wanted back on the stage. She hadn't felt the heat of theatre lamps beating down on her from the catwalks in almost five years, and the icy dread she'd felt in her stomach the day she finished her run playing Dolly Gallagher Levi and said "goodbye" instead of "hello" had yet to thaw. Pregnancy had limited her work options, so her universe centered around that while she slowed down her career, only doing an album and some voice work until Ava was born. Then her maternity leave turned into an indefinite hiatus because she didn't want her daughter to have the same off and on nanny-necessary upbringing her sons had when their mothers happened to be away at the same time, working wherever and whenever the gods of their respective careers deigned. It wasn't too common, but was more often than any of the Fabray-Berry clan would have liked.

But now, instead of making a triumphant return to live theatre, she was trapped in the claws of the corporate entertainment industry. The avaricious vultures of motion pictures and music labels had had enough of hovering and sunk their talons into her yet again. They were the reasons she was stuck in a recording studio, fulfilling a contractual obligation at ten o'clock on a rainy weeknight when she should be home. It was bullshit.

"Are you ready?"

Alan, her producer, sound engineer, and friend by virtue of time only, spoke patient words in an impatient tone. He didn't want to be here any more than she did, yet some of the blame for this rested as much on his broad shoulders as with the money-hungry scavengers picking at her dead career. He and her agent pulled for her to record the title song for a soundtrack to a new movie she had otherwise nothing to do with. He was also the one who then convinced her manager that a new album to coincide with the soundtrack and film release would be the perfect comeback for Rachel Berry.

She'd tried a comeback once. It blew up in confetti of carousel horse sweaters right before her eyes.

The weary singer could feel the large man towering above her. Looking at him was the last thing she wanted to do. The album was a communal decision by everyone but her. Adding another track to the list was diktat of the label, and the final song was determined by none other than the dear Mr. Alan Claussøn looming over the couch, likely with his arms crossed. She'd known him long enough to feel confident calling him an asshole for it, too.

Alan's foot connected with the couch frame just below the cushion pillowing Rachel's head."Seriously. Get up."

Sitting was harder than anticipated. Her body felt like a wrung out rag and her voice wasn't faring much better. The recent emotional upheaval of her life was expressing itself bodily, and finally, she was starting to look her age. Well, closer to it. There were wrinkles where her once firm, smooth skin had defied time. The luster was gone from her hair and eyes. She was thinner, too. Rachel always prided herself on looking her best even when at her worst, but her current situation was unprecedented. She had no idea it was possible to feel so awful that she could forget or flat out ignore her body's needs or signs of poor health.

The divorce was making her sick.

She rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stand, stretching and cursing the drainpipe jeans she wore. Yet another example of everyone conspiring against her. Rumors of Rachel Berry's return were "unintentionally" leaked to the tabloids and gossip mongers of the media. As if the visible distress over her broken marriage wasn't enough, she now again worried about, and was even more self-conscious of, how she dressed in public. Staying up to date on the latest trends wasn't particularly hard — fashion constantly repeated itself — but it was one more thing she didn't want to bother with because it didn't  _matter_. She felt like the outcast teenager all over again, only without her shield of soft sweaters and schoolgirl skirts.

"Let's go, Berry. Time is money."

Right. Because that adage never got old. Alan was such a jerk.

The brash diva held her tongue. It was a finely honed skill acquired and perfected during her humble, wide-eyed beginnings in New York and served her well in her line of work. A skill she failed to employ in her personal life, mostly within her marriage.

She shook her head, rolled her shoulders and yawned, big and wide. Relaxation was crucial for this to work. All day she'd been tense with anticipation of tomorrow, and the phone call informing her of an additional track being tagged to her album while she'd been at the salon made it worse. It was nerve-wracking enough to have a photo shoot for _Vanity Fair_ the next morning, and knowing she'd look like death warmed over no matter what photography tricks they had up their sleeves compounded her worry. No amount of Photoshop and airbrushing would erase the physicality of her heartbreak.

She blamed Santana. This was the last time she was listening to the blunt woman's spot-on assessment of her shitstorm of a life and how to deal with it. Rachel loved the work, true. And Tana was right to get her ass in gear and back out there, but despite what some may think, the diva wasn't ready for the celebrity of it all.

"Move it, Rachel."

There was a special place in Hell waiting for Alan.

Wordlessly, the brunette moved from the mixing room toward the isolation booth hiding in the far corner of the sound studio. A labyrinth of scattered chairs and music stands left by the session musicians did its best to trip her up. It reminded her of Theseus threading the maze on his way to defeat the Minotaur. Considering how bullheaded this night had become, the analogy was apt. Rachel didn't feel like a hero, though. Nor did she have the thing she once counted upon to tether her. The person she trusted to lead her back to herself whenever she faced hopelessness was gone. Her wife left her. Worse, Rachel let her go.

Now secure in the recording booth and cut off from the rest of the world yet again, the singer stared at the sheet music as she put on her headphones. Yes, she could have opted to have the score projected onto the LookingGlas smart-screen window, but she was a traditionalist. The smell of the paper and the feel of it in her hands when she'd placed it on the stand, the sensory proof that this was really her life and that she'd achieved her dreams usually comforted her. Instead the pages were mocking, laughing at her failure.

Take twenty-two. Twenty. Two. This was unheard of in her world. Prior to today, the most attempts she'd ever done for a track topped out at nine. She was always prepared, knowing her songs backward and forward before production even began. But she hadn't known about this whole ordeal until one o'clock this afternoon. It still didn't excuse the fact she just couldn't get it right.

Sad brown eyes closed.  _Get It Right_. The original song she penned at the age of sixteen was also on this album. That track was laid two weeks ago with the other eleven songs to be released. Its meaning was dramatically altered from when she was a teen. The composition was the exact same as when she performed it at Regionals junior year of high school, but oh how very, very different the song itself became. A lifetime of trying to get things right every day — sometimes succeeding, sometimes not — changed her perspective on the lyrics.

Recording it nearly destroyed her. She barely made it home that night before the tears burned rivers of regret down her cheeks. Her life wasn't supposed to turn out like this.

"Ready?" Alan's voice was grainy coming through the headphones resting on her ears.

She nodded without looking away from the written music. It was time.

The pre-recorded playback began. She'd done a scratch vocal with the orchestra (yes, orchestra) earlier that evening to get a feel for the song, but it hadn't helped her so far and certainly wasn't good enough to put on a record. The Handel-Halvorsen Passacaglia, transposed for cello and viola, tore her from further thoughts of failure. A classical guitar and double bass layered beneath it with a slow cadence of tympani and snare drums without being any bit militaristic. It gave four an half measures of the centuries old piece, and Rachel used those twenty seconds to breathe in preparation for the shift into  _Et Maintenant_ , or rather, the English adaptation of it. The ricochet bowing of the strings in the Passacaglia switched to sharp plucks and horns edged in unexpectedly, but not overpoweringly so. The song grew in intensity, but kept the subtle melancholy of the original French arrangement.

The lyrical translation Alan chose was used by Connie Francis over eighty years ago, but that was the only commonality of the many covers that Rachel's version would have. Because the diva was going to do this her way. She was going to make it her own without the country waltz of Connie's cover, without Judy Garland's big band sound, without Sinatra's swing or Elvis's bolero march; without Streisand's ballad infected by acid-jazz horns; without the empty-heartedness of Roy Orbison's unaffected rendition, or the Latin flare of the Tijuana Brass; without The Supremes' girl group vocals or Willie Nelson's twang; without Sonny & Cher's tambourines and jive, shaker percussion, or the the bluesy perfection that forever lay in Dame Shirley Bassey. No.

She was going to do it Rachel Berry style.

And do it better than all of them.

Or so she thought.

Midway through the second verse, Alan cut the sound. His heavy sigh was visible through the space separating them. Visible, but inaudible. His big hands massaged his face and one reached over and slapped the intercom button to "on" before he leaned back in his chair.

"I don't believe you. I haven't all night. You're not feeling it." He groaned and crossed his arms. "Jesus, do you even know what this song is about, Rachel?"

The answer to that question lay in the very marrow of her bones but she couldn't say it. She was screwing up. Again. The normally loquacious woman had no response for him. Because he was right. She didn't feel it. The risk of immersing herself in this song was just too great. If _Get It Right_ wrecked her, this would surely obliterate any ruins that remained. But she didn't have a choice. She had to get this done. Rachel grimaced. Annihilation was inevitable.

In moments she was in the control room, browsing through her phone. Thanks to universal 1Life technology, everything people had on one electronic device was synchronized to whatever others they may own. Media could be transferred and saved forever with customized databases for people, even things from before 1Life had come along.

Finding what she wanted — what she _needed_ — Rachel handed the smartphone to Alan and asked him to link it with the LookingGlas software and project it on the magical screen-cum-window of the isolation booth.

"You have a message."

She was already back in front of the mic, centered the appropriate distance from the windscreen filter between her mouth and the mounted microphone when Alan came through on the talkback again. "Read it to me. Please."

"Joshua wants to know when you'll be home."

Rachel rolled her head back, jaw lax and eyes closed. "Soon," she said. "Tell him soon."

Seconds later, the music started and the motivating photo she'd chosen shimmered in front of her.

Times Square, 2015: a much younger Rachel stood holding on to fair-skinned forearms wrapped about her shoulders and chest as Quinn held her from behind, both wearing smiles brighter than the glowing backdrop of the brilliant billboard of Rachel with crossed eyes and the tip of her tongue touching her nose, advertising the revival of Funny Girl. It was her name-making role, the role she won her first Tony for. The role she'd worked toward since she was Ava's age. The role she'd earned and deserved, with Quinn ever present and refusing to let her give up when Rachel's star dwarfed and seemed to supernova in a series of failed auditions or bit roles that took her across the country and farther away from her girlfriend. That photo was taken the first night the sign went up. It was the night Quinn proposed.

Her cue approached, and the abandoned wife inhaled a shaky breath.

" _What now, my love? Now that you've left me…_ " Breathe, she reminded herself. Feel it and push past it. " _How can I live, through another day?_ "

Santana lied. Time hadn't made things easier. In fact, each day was harder than the last and so much worse than when Quinn was traveling. Why? Because she wasn't coming back. After nearly six months of utter silence, it was abundantly clear the doctor wanted nothing to do with her. And wasn't coming home ever again. Oh,  _God_.

It finally hit her: Quinn was gone.

The projection suddenly changed to muted video of a screeching Quinn getting blasted by water from ten-year-old Joshua's and seven-year-old Daniel's squirt guns.

She unfocused her eyes and spotted Alan with one hand on the mixing board and the other holding her phone. Goddamn Alan. Damn him to Hell.

The image shook as playfully narrowed hazel eyes turned toward the camera, and soon the video was a blur of grass and sky because Rachel had taken off running from a mischievous looking Quinn. It was a swirl of the summer home's landscape as the taller woman picked her up and spun her around, the wetness of her clothes soaking through Rachel's as she held her wife hostage for the boys to douse their Mama.

" _Watching my dreams, turn into ashes._ "

A new video appeared. Ava's third birthday party. Santana filmed Quinn bouncing the little girl piggyback while Ava held on tightly, giggling. The blonde swung the child about her waist in a move reminiscent of the Lindy Hop, and the two plopped down in front of a large pink and lavender monarch "flutterfly" cake with the toddler parked on her Mommy's lap.

Alan was so fired. She'd find a way to make that happen.

" _And all my hopes, into bits of clay._ "

Tears rolled down her face and her throat tightened, but the roughness of added to the dynamism of the song. More and more family videos and photographs scrolled by until it was one of just her and Quinn.

Their wedding video.

No, not fired. Alan was a dead man.

There were blushing cheeks and glistening eyes as Santana performed her final duty as (Badass) Maid of Honor and delivered her speech. There were shared kisses amid the silenced clinking of cutlery against coffee cups and dinner plates she could still hear in her head. There was the cake cutting and the vegan buttercream frosting covering Quinn's mouth and nose, then the sight of her exacting her revenge by kissing Rachel hard, rubbing the tasty mess all over her face as well. Then came their first dance.

This was too much.

Alan had no right to make this worse.

Image after image. Moment after moment. Memories she'd never have again paired off with the knowledge she'd never make new ones. The ending of the song sneaked up on her, and she straightened. The climax of the song meant the vocals had to rise one more time, completing the scripted three-octave progression few performers ever pulled off in the past. Rachel shut her eyes as if that would block out the pain but it was useless. She felt herself falling away, crumbling into a kind of brokenhearted oblivion.

" _What now, my love? Now there is nothing._ " Her voice trembled and her body went rigid. " _Only my last…goodbye._ "

The truth of that line weighed down her soul. Insurgent tears battered her closed eyelids until she blinked them away, only to reveal the initial photo of her and Quinn ready to take on the world —together. With more courage than she'd have guessed she owned, the brunette flung her arms wide in the booth. Rachel Berry, self-proclaimed diva and reluctant celebrity, relinquished the final phrase to Rachel Fabray-Berry who let go with everything she had.

" _Only my last…goodbye!_ "

She punched out the note and held the fermata until her voice nearly cracked, an unsolicited vibrato from the lump in her throat. The music faded out the same time her knees buckled. She collapsed to all fours, ripping the headphones off and ignoring the disgusting mess of tears, snot and drool pooling below her as she wept harder than ever before. Her stomach clenched from the force of her sobs, rebelling and regurgitating bile and coffee. It tasted like despair. Who knew misery had a flavor?

Triggered by the unwanted memories, the anguish she felt within the last year of her marriage rushed forth like a dam bursting. The purging she didn't know she'd needed ensued.

Alan was really good at his job.

One massive hand swept back long brown locks while another awkwardly patted her back. "It's okay." There was a manly sniff then the voice turned rougher. "You got it right this time."

A bitter laugh choked her blubbering. Just as she was about to tell Alan how much of a prick he was, sirens blared from beyond the open doors of the booth and control room. The LookingGlas cut to an emergency weather alert broadcast. The storm was getting worse.

 

 


	10. Song Called Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy flashback!

"Hey Rach?"

Quinn toyed with damp brown locks as the two women lay in bed. Normally after so many rounds of lovemaking in the creaky, neighbor-attention-grabbing bed, she was content to drift off to the lullaby of her wife's heartbeat. But as the sweat cooled on their skin and Rachel's breathing calmed, Quinn had something on her mind.

She nudged her nonresponsive wife and tried again. "Rachel?"

A kiss fell to the top of her head. "Hmmm?"

Quinn wrapped her finger in a length of the frizzing curls and took a steadying breath. They'd never really talked about it seriously. They'd always been too engrossed in each other to give it any real thought, but the idea was there constantly there, niggling at the far corner of her brain.

"What would you think about having a baby?"

Rachel tensed and Quinn was sure the steady thump beneath her ear actually stopped before kicking back in double time. Although Rachel did not have a cardiac arrhythmia, it was nonetheless what the doctor heard.

"A baby?" Rachel squeaked out.

It wasn't a good squeak, either.

It was the same frightened sound Santana made around garden gnomes. To her,  _Gnomeo & Juliet_ was equally as scary as  _The Exorcist_  was to an impressionable, twelve-year-old, Catholic Quinn of the sixth grade. Convincing Santana to be Rachel's Maid of Honor was nothing in comparison to the lengths the diva had gone to get the stubborn law student to sit down and watch that film (along with the entire  _David the Gnome_ television series). It was always fascinating to see her melt the cold heart of the ex-Cheerio, and coerce Santana into doing whatever the actress wanted because for some weird reason, Santana had done a complete 180° spin from their teen years and just couldn't tell Rachel "no" anymore. And Quinn had heard enough of this same kind of terrified whining from that movie night to know exactly how petrified Rachel was right now.

Quinn swallowed down her disappointment. "Never mind."

Because of the horrendous mess she'd created in everyone's lives during her senior year and the deranged plan she had to get Beth back, she'd been ignoring the nagging tick of her biological clock for some time now. Nature's timer began its booming countdown shortly after the blonde's twenty-first birthday. And after two years of marriage, the sound was deafening.

A warm palm fell to her cheek and angled her face toward Rachel's. The fear in her eyes pulled at Quinn's stomach. "You're serious, I presume?"

She felt sick. She felt ashamed for wanting a baby. It was selfish, especially with the state of the world today. But that didn't change the yearning to hold a child in her arms — a child with Rachel's eyes and smile. She was so in love with her wife and couldn't wait to fall in love with an extension of her. She wanted that infectious laugh in stereo and two sets of eyes rolling at her whenever she said something dumb or inappropriate. She wanted two bodies worth of hugs and two hearts worth of love that would unconditionally own hers forever. She wanted a family.

"Forget about it." Jesus, that hurt to say. "We should sleep. You have rehearsal in the morning."

"Precisely. And you have a double at the hospital tomorrow." The chest under Quinn's head rose and fell with a heavy sigh. "We aren't in any position to have a baby right now, Quinn. We're both working nonstop. My current contract is for two years, and you're starting that research project with Jonas soon."

"Jonah." The correction was purely reflex.

Dr. Saulke had quickly become the father to her Russell refused to be. On recommendations from a number of her professors and supervisors, Jonah sought her out during her rounds one night at Harlem Hospital Center and propositioned her with a place on his team. Virology never occurred to her in med school, but apparently her two undergrad degrees and current residency in pediatrics was perfect for the field: it seemed many virologists chose that path in order to eradicate childhood diseases. And she'd seen enough HIV Positive kids in her short time in medicine that she jumped at the chance to help find a cure. Those were the cases that got to her the most and she had no idea why. What was she thinking of adding another tiny person to the global population when there were so many kids all over the world that needed tending?

"You're right. We aren't ready for a baby."

And she was. Rachel was so right. Quinn had wanted a real family all her life and now it was within reach, but Rachel was doing the right thing by smacking that dream from her grasp. It was stupid. She'd messed up her chance with Beth and eventually left well-enough alone, making the choice to give her daughter a better life even though it wasn't with her. She was wrong for thinking she deserved to have another shot at motherhood.

There was quiet for a while and she assumed the brunette fell asleep. One more thing she was wrong about.

"How long have you been thinking about this?"

Since their first date. Since the first time they said "I love you" and Quinn discovered how to speak those words without lying. Since Rachel accepted her marriage proposal. Since their wedding day. And every single time the admittedly self-absorbed diva would glance up at Quinn from her newest script or cup of coffee, or smile from across a room or hold her hand on the subway, looking at the blonde as if she were the only person on the planet.

"Not long."

"Liar."

Quinn wanted to smile at how well Rachel knew her. Instead she bit her lip and continued playing with her wife's hair. Her wife. That would never get old. The girl she'd tortured and tried so hard to make hate her in the past was the most important thing in the world to her, and she couldn't ask for anything more.

And she wasn't. Not really. Having a child together wouldn't be more, it'd be…expanding.

Rachel wiggled lower until the two women were eye to eye, secure in each other's arms. This was enough, she thought. Rachel was enough—more than.

"You've planned this, haven't you?"

It wasn't an accusation, but the sincere interest she heard was obviously imagined. Yet, it was the trigger she needed to spew her entire blueprint for constructing their family.

"I'd carry it," she blurted. "We'd pick a donor and use your eggs—or from both of us if you wanted—and I'd carry it and be big and fat and gross and smelly and miserable all over again because I want more than anything to have a baby with you.

Word vomit, everywhere, and almost all in one breath.

"You'd stay on Broadway and I'd ask Jonah to assign me to lit reviews and documentation instead of lab work. I'm the newbie and he already has so many experienced doctors on his team I'm sure it wouldn't be a problem." Quinn couldn't believe how pitiful she sounded. Truthfully, she didn't know if he would actually do that for her. However, Dr. Fabray was prepared to let that particular career defining opportunity slip away and stay a lowly pediatrician as originally planned if it meant having her family.

Rachel tucked mussed blonde hair behind Quinn's ear. "But for how long, Quinn?"

"Um, nine months. That's generally how long it takes a typical human fetus to gestate." The longest nine months of any mother's life, but still only nine months.

The wide smile she worshiped honored her with a brief appearance before vanishing into the darkness of their apartment. "I meant about work, baby. Pregnancy, then birth, then raising it? It's more than nine months, Quinn. It's years. We've barely begun our life together. I just don't think we're ready."

Petition denied. That was that.

Distraught beyond the telling of it, Quinn put on a brave face but the sorrow in her voice betrayed her. "It was a dumb idea. Things are good the way they are."

It was true. But good could always be better.

Rachel's hold tightened, preventing Quinn from rolling over to hide the tears she had no hope of stopping. "Saying we're not ready isn't the same as saying no forever."

Not saying no didn't mean yes, either.

"I know we haven't discussed it much, but I do want a family with you," Rachel whispered, stroking along Quinn's cheek. "I want a hazel-eyed child running underfoot and making a mess in the kitchen while helping me fix you breakfast in bed on your birthday or our anniversary. I want sunny days pushing a stroller through Central Park. I want us on the beach at Coney Island with another set of footprints between ours in the wet sand along the shoreline."

Openly crying now, the blonde turned enough to kiss her wife's palm. "But?"

"I didn't think it'd be so soon, is all." Rachel pulled Quinn closer, tucking the taller woman's head beneath her chin. Most people wouldn't think the usually serious-minded M.D. would enjoy being held like this, but so often Quinn's world only made sense when she was wrapped up in Rachel's arms. "My original plan was to lose my virginity at the age of twenty-five on a bed of rose petals surrounded by warm candlelight. And to a boy. Of the husband variety. Not as a teenager in the backseat of a car."

Quinn's smug chuckle was countered with a thwack to her shoulder.

"Hush it." Rachel's hand absently soothed away the sting it created. "My point is, having a child wasn't factored in as a possibility until much later."

"If we were older, like thirty or something, would this even be in question?"

Brown eyes looked away and Quinn had her answer. She wanted to jump up and find the bedazzled pink binder and see if having children was really factored in at all or if Rachel was just placating her right now. Her stomach twisted to think of all the times she'd casually brought it up and Rachel merely nodded or shrugged and said things like "someday" or "I suppose". How had they gotten so far together and not explored the possibility that children may not be in store for them? The doctor blamed her own insecurities from the Beth/Shelby debacle of her senior year. She should have been brave enough to bring it up sooner. Like before they got married.

"Why, Rach?"

"I never had a mother," she said.

They were nose to nose and the taller woman still had to strain to hear it. But once again, Shelby Corcoran had inadvertently fucked up Quinn's life. That woman should have never come back to Ohio after giving birth to Rachel. It would have spared all of them so much pain if Shelby had just stayed anonymous and gone.

"I wouldn't know where to begin, how to be one. What if I screw up?" Rachel had never sounded so insecure.

Quinn propped up on her elbow and traced her wife's face, taking care to caress those sexy beauty marks on either cheek before trailing along that strong, determined jawline. "You don't think I'm scared, too? Parenting doesn't come with a manual, baby, but your dads are amazing examples. And yeah, it'll be terrifying at times, but we'll figure it out. Together."

"Need I point out that you've spent the last few years with kids day in and day out? It's quite literally your job to know what they need and how to take care of them."

"I know how to take care of their bodies, Rachel. That doesn't mean I know how to discipline them, or make them put on pajamas and brush their teeth," she teased, running a finger down the slope of her wife's nose.

Thick, kohl black eyelashes fluttered and Quinn dotted a single kiss to each closed eyelid. Her fingertip followed the curve of dark brows then back to the adorable ears that Rachel had thankfully grown in to. She remembered how big the brunette's ears had been on her small body during the transition from child to adolescent. Then she remembered the name calling: goblin, troll and Dumbo were the most common ones.

Guilt pervaded every individual thought and each firing synapse. She'd been a horrible person all in the name of pleasing others and distancing herself from the girl who made her belly flicker with a strange fire she didn't understand and couldn't afford to explore when they were younger. Rachel still made her feel that way, but now Quinn knew exactly what it was. Love. Love beyond all words in every language. Rachel was her everything, and Quinn wanted to give her everything she could. And, having done it before, she knew that a baby was probably the best thing she could ever offer the goddess lying next to her. If Rachel refused, what else did Quinn have that would be good enough for her?

"Quinn?" All deliberations of her own inadequacy were disrupted as Rachel called her to attention and studied the blonde thoroughly. She wasn't biting her lip. Her forehead was free of worry lines. And her eyes were hard, but clear.

Quinn wasn't sure when she'd felt more naked. Probably that night in the back of her car—before they'd taken off their clothes. Or maybe their wedding night.

"You really think we could do it?"

Her answer was immediate. "Yes." Then Quinn gave a sheepish smile and brushed her thumb over Rachel's lips. "I don't know the right way to teach them life lessons or how to be a good person. I was so weak growing up, baby. I was an awful person. I did what everyone else told me to, tried to be who they wanted me to be, and hurt so, so many people in the process. Especially you."

Rachel's eyes softened and the doctor knew she was on the verge of objecting, but she had to get through this.

"I won't be able to teach them how to be strong or to never give up or be proud of who they are no matter what. Not like you can. Like how you're still teaching me."

Tender hands found her cheeks and wiped away the tears that Quinn begged to be gone. "Luce?"

The blonde blinked. "Yeah?" It was the profoundly rare occasion Rachel called her that.

Rachel inhaled deeply as if summoning her courage, but the vulnerability in her eyes made Quinn all the more nervous. "Have my baby?"

Joy. Happiness. Jubilance. Exultation of the highest degree inflated Quinn's soul and she kissed her wife with every ounce of love she had, promising her heart, mind and body to the brunette all over again. It lasted until their lungs seized, and she pulled back just enough for air, keeping her lips in contact with Rachel's.

"Yes! All of them. I'll have as many of your babies as you want." She rolled on top of Rachel, laughing and crying and kissing all at once, anxious to show this woman just how much she loved her and how committed to their family she already was.

"Wait. Babies?" Rachel groaned as a slick tongue worked down her neck.

"Mmmhmm. Plural." The pediatrician adopted the most serious tone she could muster at the moment. "Only children are just so spoiled."

Rachel huffed and playfully tried to push her off. Quinn's laughter at those rolling eyes carried all the fear and insecurity of earlier right out of her being, and the diva pouted. "Oh you can just bite me, Fabray."

"Gladly."

Choosing to take the words at face value, Quinn waggled her eyebrows and obliged tenfold; the gasps that followed sent them both reeling. Long moments passed while their hands found all the right places as though discovering them for the first time. There was skin and heat and connection in a way they'd never known before. But they were there, together—fingers thrusting, lips kissing and teasing—loving each other over and over.

When Rachel finally screamed into Quinn's mouth, the blonde whimpered in surrender and knew their simultaneous ending that night was merely their beginning.

 

 


	11. Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You

  
  


Rachel sagged against the wall, staring at the ceiling in hopes of drying out her tears. There was a crack in the corner. Not a big one, just a small line stemming from the crown molding. She could probably paint over it; the hallway could use a new color anyway. The beige sandstone tone just wasn't cutting it anymore. Although, she thought, it could be something serious, something deep within the structure that maybe a fresh coat wouldn't cover. She supposed it was to be expected: the house was ancient.

Built at the turn of the 20th Century, it was a shining example of classic New York elitist architecture and an emblem of displaced Hollywood and all its glamour. Yes, it was extravagant, and had been gutted and renovated more than once since its longest inhabitant had passed away in 2003. But it was cozy, somehow, warm. Once it came on the market six years ago, Quinn had gone above and beyond in getting Rachel something the actress had only joked about. Now, the diva resided in the brownstone Katharine Hepburn called home for sixty years and had the same communal backyard once shared by Steven Sondheim. Except for that squiggly line running overhead and the millions it'd cost them, living in Turtle Bay Gardens was perfect. Rachel had dreamed of success when younger, but never did she picture living like this. However, she wouldn't have imagined marrying her high school bully, either.

She sighed and looked down at the herringbone flooring. That wasn't fair. Name-calling and petty jealousy aside, Quinn hadn't hurt her as much as people thought. Finn Hudson and his private verbal abuse, degradation, and condescension did far more damage to her than some snarky comments and a few lewd drawings. Some of the things said by Kurt or Mercedes cut deeper than the former Cheerio's snide but tired insults. Maybe it was because they knew each other before Lucy became Quinn. Maybe it was because Rachel knew that in reality, Quinn's problems had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the blonde herself. In fact, regarding what Rachel deemed the worst of the bullying—the slushies—Quinn never was involved. She never personally threw one of those icy drinks in Rachel's face, ever. And it wasn't like a fellow student, head cheerleader or not, had any control over what the entire student body chose to do and the faculty chose to ignore.

Quinn Fabray the bully hurt her less than Quinn Fabray-Berry, wife and partner, and nowhere near as much as Dr. Quinn Fabray, M.D., the medical _wunderkind_.

Once upon a time, the blonde had been her white knight, saving her from the Hell of Lima and devoting herself to Rachel alone. Now she belonged to the world. If not by name, then certainly by deed. The problem was that Rachel needed rescuing, healing. And Quinn hadn't been there.

But she was here now. Here in their—Rachel's—bed, soothing and singing their children to sleep, savior from the storm.

How dare she?

How dare she manifest out of the black and cloudy sky to be the responsible, loving parent she was before? How dare she sleep in the bed she gave up, the bed Rachel cried herself to sleep in more often than not? And how fucking dare she presume to think Rachel wouldn't object or be angry? What in the name of Streisand what the woman thinking?

Knowing Quinn? She probably wasn't. As a doctor, Quinn was thoughtful and logical: she followed procedure and clinical methodology. As a person, she was the opposite. Quinn reacted from the gut, relying on instinct instead of practicality. Most of the time that instinct was borne from fear and only provided defensive measures. Quinn was purely fight or flight to the worst degree.

The brunette ran both hands through her hair. Was that what happened to them? Was it because her wife was so afraid that she turned harsh then retreated when things got harder? What could she possibly be so damned scared of?

Rachel slid down the wall, holding her head in her hands. She didn't know. And part of that not knowing was her own fault. She'd chosen ignorance. Marriage counseling was her idea, but she wasn't as active in it as Quinn was. She figured because of that, because Quinn was working on herself, they wouldn't have to work so hard on _them_.

Her own hubris surprised her. Agreeing to one session every other week with Dr. Coe, but participating only when prompted or outright provoked wasn't as good as Quinn's weekly individual appointments. Couple's therapy lasted only six months with Rachel attending half as many meetings as Quinn. The dark side of her assumed her wife and Dr. Coe were talking about how sick of Rachel Quinn was, and how she wanted out of the marriage.

Deep down, she knew that wasn't true.

They ended things because neither could keep living like they were. They'd become less than strangers and both were miserable. How ironic: Rachel felt worse now than ever before. She wondered, did Quinn feel the same?

Pulling herself together, she stood and peeked into the bedroom again. Joshua was on the far left end, hugging the pillow that used to be Quinn's. He and Daniel were back-to-back, and the larger boy was curled into as small of a ball as possible. Which wasn't very small at all. Quinn was next. On her back with an arm flung over her head and as beautiful as ever. So damn beautiful.

Her heart hurdled over the fence of anger and pain entrapping it. Pieces of her hated herself for still being so in love. The rest of her hated herself for not doing more when she had the chance. For not yielding to their relationship completely. Quinn was too pretty. Too confident, too intelligent, and too much everything to be with someone like Rachel, and the singer had thought that from their beginning. She never wholly gave in or lowered her guard for fear that one day Quinn would come to her senses, realize she could do better, and leave.

Just like everyone else did.

Shelby gave her up. Twice. Finn was a mess of a relationship with more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. Puck was like a drifter, "slumming it" with her for a few days before moving on. Jesse used her then abused her, and she stupidly went back to him anyway. His return to Lima wasn't by choice and her companionship served to bolster his ego and get him back into the show choir life only so he could stay behind in New York while New Directions took their 12th place trophy home to Ohio. Then came the mistake of Finn. Again.

Much of the time her own parents were too caught up in themselves to pay teenage Rachel the attention she craved. She was a novelty baby, born because two men wanted to prove people wrong and show the world homosexuals raised heterosexual children. They loved her. They were good fathers and set appropriate limits when they weren't spoiling their little princess. But the disappointed faces they wore the day Rachel formally introduced Quinn as her girlfriend was permanently etched on her brain. Yes, eventually they'd accepted her and her sexuality with open arms. But after twenty years of marriage and three children, they still never fully warmed to Quinn.

That was another thing. Rachel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed but with a thumbnail snared between two rows of teeth. Her dads didn't know about the divorce. None of their family and friends knew. Except Santana. Who had yet to give her the names of good attorneys who could handle the divorce of Rachel Berry with discretion. She frowned. It'd been a few days since they'd seen each other, but she needed to remember to ask the lawyer about it soon. She didn't want to prolong this ordeal more than necessary. But, she sighed, looking at the sleeping persons who powered the very beating of her heart, Rachel wondered if she really should file for divorce at all. Guilt roiled in her chest as Tana again came to mind. No, she had to go through with this.

She checked her phone. She'd been lingering out here for almost an hour. It was time for bed. Morning would come soon and pull her from whatever rest she could hope to get, then drag her away to a studio across town for a promotional session with _Vanity Fair_ 's best photographer. Woo and fucking hoo.

Rachel shook her head and trekked into her room, pointedly avoiding looking at the bed. Her path was a direct cut to the walk-in closet/antique dressing room. There was a stipulation in the deed that they couldn't touch that room for anything other than upkeep. It was an unnecessary condition, Rachel wouldn't have messed with Kate the Great's private vanity even with a gun to her head. She slogged into the vast space, closing the door before flipping on the light. Strangely, noise was not something that would wake the bodies in her bed: Rachel could (and on occasion had) run scales in the same room as the slumbering coterie without disturbing them in the slightest, but light was a different story. The Fabray-Berry tribe needed as much darkness as possible or else—

"Mama?"

Damn it. Rachel blew out a huge breath and made quick work of changing into pajamas then shut off the light. She stepped out and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. Ava was whimpering a little bit. Rachel soon focused on little legs pushing back the heavy comforter with lazy kicks as the child sat up, pouting. She moved quickly, reaching the bed in record time. "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Ava shook her head. Tangles of frizzy brown hair danced over her shoulders and her pout deepened. "Hafta potty."

Rachel almost chuckled. Instead she helped the little girl out of bed and accompanied her to the master bathroom upon the silent request via the small hand gripping her own. Ava was too old to need any help, but she didn't always like being alone. The mother could only imagine how many friends she'd be dragging in with her to the sanctuary of school restrooms ten years from now. Actually, she didn't want to imagine ten years from now. The boys were difficult enough; she didn't want to think about what a teenaged Ava would be like. Hopefully nothing like Rachel herself. She doubted she'd be so lucky.

Mission successful, Ava sprinted out of the en suite and launched herself onto the bed. Right next to Quinn. Rachel finished her bedtime routine and followed to tuck Ava in, watching the doctor turn onto her side, facing their daughter and thankfully still asleep. She wasn't ready to look into those hazel eyes again. There was no telling how either would react to it, and the diva was too tired and drained to handle the inevitable fallout right now.

Ava scooted closer to her mommy and patted the free space next to her four-year-old body. "M'kay. There's for you."

Dark brows climbed to Rachel's hairline. Of course Ava expected her to join the cuddle party. The innocent child had no way of knowing how complicated the situation was and how much worse such behavior would make it all. It was a fire Rachel couldn't afford fanning.

"Mama's going to sleep down the hall tonight, sweetie."

"In _Tía's_ room?"

Rachel nodded. The guest room was always at the ready in case Santana should randomly appear and plan to stay the night. It hadn't been used in months, however. Not because Tana hadn't slept over, but because she'd been staying in Rachel's bed.

"Yeah. In _Tía's_ room."

"Nooooo." Ava's tone wasn't whiny at all. It was authoritative and a little patronizing. Great, she sounded like Quinn. "I want you to stay here." She tapped the mattress quite deliberately.

Rachel glanced at Quinn, then back to Ava. Pathetic puppy dog eyes shone with forced tears and her little chin quivered. They were in such trouble when she got older. Slamming doors, angry words, and persuasive apologies flashed in her mind. Ava was her exact duplicate. They were doomed. It was times like these that the actress really disliked being psychic. Unfortunately, none of it stopped her from acquiescing and crawling into bed next to her daughter.

Ava flopped onto her belly, her hand already curling into her mama's hair as Rachel folded in, laying on her side. Within moments, the toddler was in dreamland, abandoning the singer to smooth her fingers through baby soft locks as a means of absolutely not looking at Quinn. Easier said than done.

Her gaze deviated to the woman in the middle of the bed. Only the petite body of her youngest child separated them. She longed to reach over and brush the silvery gold tresses away from Quinn's forehead, but she caught her wayward hand back just in time. No. Too much too soon.

She wasn't ready for this. And she honestly didn't know if she ever would be again.

Yawning, Rachel settled under the covers, her hand now resting on Ava's back. The little girl squirmed and turned her head toward Quinn, but Rachel left her hand where it lay, waiting for Ava to calm.

She didn't. There was wiggling and whimpering and before Rachel could attempt to soothe her daughter, a warm palm landed atop her hand.

Although very much asleep, Quinn intuitively stretched out to comfort their baby. The side effect was metaphoric third degree burns searing Rachel's skin. She couldn't move. Couldn't pull away. Couldn't stop her fingers from interlacing with her wife's.

So far from insignificant, the touch both cooled her anger and melted the ice in which she'd tried to pack away her heart. Rachel closed her eyes and a tear leaked sideways, down to the pillow. Quinn gave an involuntary twitch in her sleep and slender fingers squeezed Rachel's. God Himself couldn't stop her from squeezing back.

Entwined, their hands rose and fell with each breath Ava took while their sons snored on. Whether or not she filed for divorce, whether or not they simply stayed separated but still legally wed, whether some sort of miracle occurred and they found a way to forgive and try again, it was clear to Rachel that they had no choice but to remain in each other's lives forever. The three sleeping souls in bed with them braided into the lifeline she and the Quinn were tied together with for eternity. Yet, if this was the only way to re-tether herself to Quinn, especially considering her behavior since the doctor had moved out, she'd take it. It was probably the best she could hope for.

 

 


	12. Early Morning Strangers

Consciousness came not by means of an alarm clock, but from a ringing phone. Which didn't make sense because Quinn's cell was in the pocket of the coat she left in the office last night. A song played over the sound of the morning rain beating against the windows for all of five seconds before something silenced it, leaving the phone and the bedroom quiet except for the undisturbed breathing of sleeping children. Quinn was not so lucky.

Belatedly, she recognized the song. Unless Josh had finally taken a liking to Streisand, she doubted he brought his phone to bed with him last night. Her breath hitched and the warmth she now felt against her hand spread up her arm to her neck and face. Fingers, unnaturally still, were interlocked with hers. And the fear she was dreaming prevented her from peeking to see how wrong she probably was. A sigh from the body so near carried to her ears and Quinn held tighter, refusing to let go. She let go once, she wasn't going to do it again.

Opening her eyes, she drank in the sight of two brunettes next to her: one blissfully asleep, the other pretending to be. Rachel's face was buried in the pillow, forcing her neck at an awkward angle. The doctor frowned. If she kept that up she'd need a chiropractor. Quinn squeezed the fingers nestled between hers and tugged a few millimeters. She knew Rachel was awake, and she knew Rachel was aware of their contact.

There was the rustle of a pillowcase as Rachel turned to face Quinn fully. Her brow was pinched, and her lips pressed together in a thin line. The blonde watched a shield drop over that pained face, and brown eyes opened to meet hers.

Rachel still took her breath away.

The salty sting behind her eyes went overlooked, as did the heavy lump jammed in her throat. Yet a faint smile played at her lips and she chanced another squeeze of the hand in hers. Then she noticed something that made her heart plummet.

Rachel's ring finger was bare.

Again their gazes locked, and Quinn read the grief staring back at her. Rachel retracted her hand, pushed up, and got out of bed. She walked straight to the master bath without a word or a backward glance. The lock clicked, and the doctor found herself spiraling into a maelstrom of misery. She really was too late.

Carefully, she climbed over Ava and sat in the spot her estranged wife just vacated. Her palm fell to the warm pillow before her face did. She collected as much of Rachel's scent as possible, knowing it'd be the last instance to do so. It was time to go.

Quinn dragged a hand through her recently shorn blonde hair. It was basically the same cut she'd gotten before her senior year of high school. Dr. Coe's advice to get herself in order and figure out who the hell she now was somehow translated as getting a haircut to go with it. In the immortal words of Santana Lopez, "change your hair, change your life." If only life panned out like she planned. She looked behind her at the three children sleeping on—her reasons for being—then stood. She didn't want to leave like this. She wanted to be here when they woke, but the icy demeanor rolling off Rachel made it clear that that wasn't going to happen.

Fixing the covers over Ava, the mother smiled and shook her head at her kids. Danny was hugging Josh like a teddy bear while her daughter unconsciously put the free space around her to good use and sprawled, spread eagle on her belly. Quinn's hands took advantage of the pockets in her borrowed sweats as she continued watching them. Staring at one's lover while they slept usually bordered on creepy, but watching her own children inhale and exhale in peaceful slumber was fundamental to her survival. On nights she and Rachel fought, before she wandered to the couch in her office, Quinn made her way upstairs to stand in their doorways, looking in on them.

It could be excused as a mother fretting or checking that they really were asleep on school nights, but it was just her finding solace in the knowledge that they were safe. In modern times, child mortality rates in developed countries were minuscule. But it didn't mean that as an on-call emergency room pediatrician Dr. Fabray hadn't seen victims of SIDS or terrible accidents and the devastated parents left behind. It didn't mean she hadn't watched small bodies wither away from AIDS and other HIV complications every time she'd gone to Africa with Jonah for research or to oversee administration of the new vaccine thereafter his death. Seeing her children rest so peacefully, healthy and whole, was everything to her. They were real and alive and safe and so help her God she'd do whatever it took to keep it that way.

A kind of serenity washed over her. If she had to pick between her wife and their children, the kids would win every time. Maybe she and Rachel couldn't be married anymore, but Quinn could learn to be a good mother again. She could still have her family.

The bathroom door swung open and Quinn turned to see the woman in question emerge. Wearing a terrycloth robe and towel drying her hair, Rachel didn't bother looking at her as she headed straight for the walk-in vanity.

There was no acknowledgment except for a muttered, "Coffee should be done by now. I'll see you downstairs."

The dismissal was crystal clear. Sparing one last glance at perhaps the only good things to come from her marriage, Quinn left the bedroom, sure to close the door on her way out.

By the time Rachel made it to the kitchen, Quinn was dressed in her clothes from yesterday and nursing a cup of fresh coffee. Automated appliances were beautiful things.

The diva sauntered into the room with such chutzpah one could have sworn she was in character and making her first appearance on stage. Quinn smiled into her drink. Rachel was playing up her confidence, but was just as shaken by all this..

That all-powerful swagger faltered upon reaching the coffee pot. Quinn wondered if setting out Rachel's favorite mug was the smartest thing to do. Dishes were Josh's domain, and although the short woman was constantly rearranging the cupboards to work in her favor, he still put the coffee mugs on the top shelf. It was his and Quinn's little prank. The boy thought it was funny to watch his mama struggle to reach so high, while Quinn thought the sight of her wife's pink tongue peeking out the side of her mouth and the furrowed forehead Rachel wore each time was adorable and a little bit sexy. It gave the taller woman the excuse to place her hand on the small of Rachel's back and lean into her while being chivalrous and retrieving the black ceramic mug. It was special, the kind that revealed an image when filled with a hot beverage: a gold star, of course.

She watched Rachel snatch it off the countertop and stare at it as though mulling over whether or not to use it. The internal debate didn't last long and she poured her morning fix, adding non-dairy creamer and sugar while a shiny five-pointed star appeared.

Quinn was nervous, stumped. Should she break the heavy tension settling around them? Or was it best to wait for Rachel to take the lead?

The ringing of the house phone did it for them. Who the Hell was calling at six-thirty in the morning? The comscreen next to the microwave lit up and both watched it blink Santana's name as the call went to messaging. Rachel's head was bowed and her hands braced on the edge of the counter. Her body was rigid and tight. Was she really that upset with Quinn, or was there something more that provoked the sudden shift in her composure?

She couldn't stand it anymore. She was used to getting things done and finding solutions, one way or another. This silence served neither them, nor their situation.

"They'll be happy to see you." She saw Rachel stiffen more. Wrong thing to say. She tried making it better. "The kids, I mean. They missed you last night."

Rachel turned and her fiery eyes burned through Quinn. "Is that a dig? Are you trying to tell me I'm a bad mother for not being home sooner? Well, fuck you, Fabray."

Quinn's lids fell shut and her shoulders drooped. Why on earth did she think this was going to work when they couldn't be civil?

"No." She sighed and looked into an angry gaze. "It wasn't a dig, and I'm sorry if that's how it sounded." She hoped her words conveyed her sincerity. "You're an amazing mother, Rachel."

Better than Quinn turned out to be in the last two years.

"You're more than I could have asked for to raise our children."

"Stop it," Rachel said. Her voice was quiet, but hard.

She nodded her understanding. That last comment crossed a boundary, but she wasn't trying to patronize Rachel. "I'm sorry."

"That's twice in thirty seconds. Tell me, doctor. What makes it so easy to apologize now? When did you learn how to say you're fucking sorry?"

Rachel hardly ever swore aloud. Hearing that kind of profanity spew from her sweet mouth was disconcerting for Quinn. It was one thing to say it in the bedroom, but not outside of it. Twice. That wasn't like Rachel at all.

Still, did she really deserve it?

The Catholic in her said yes. And was ready to hand Rachel a whip to beat the sin out of her. But the bitch bristling inside her geared for a fight.

Christ, she didn't want to fight.

"I'm s—"

"Don't," Rachel fiercely cut her off. "You don't get to say that again."

Quinn shook her head and raised her hands in defense, coffee mug and all. "I'm seeing Dr. Coe. He's been helping me…" She didn't want to say "deal" because it implied she was hurting. While it was very much true, she knew it wasn't something Rachel wanted to hear right now. "He's helping me examine our—my—problems and identify my feelings and other underlying issues."

Look at her, finally learning how to talk about her emotions like a big girl. Steven would be proud. Hell,  _she_ was a little proud.

Rachel scoffed and turned her gaze upward in disbelief. "For once, can you forgo the detached rhetoric and talk to me like a human being?"

Oh.

Quinn instantly deflated. She thought Rachel would be happy she'd learned how to communicate the way she'd failed to do when they first started marriage counseling. Idiot. She didn't know what to do, and now Rachel's finger was aimed straight at her.

"If you dare say the words 'I'm sorry' again, I will  _throw_ you out this time. Understand?"

She nodded once more, looking down into the utter blackness of her coffee and wishing it held the guidance she needed right now. But, no. There was nothing.

"Good. Let's start again, shall we?" The diva didn't wait for a response. "Why are you here?"

Okay; objective questions. Quinn could do that. She could be an adult and explain her presence. "Josh texted me when the sirens went off last night. I came over and found them in my office, under the desk. Danny wasn't…coping well."

Rachel quickly spun away and downed her drink. The gold star mug was rinsed and set aside for a later boost of caffeine. Quinn knew the abrupt change of attitude and positioning had everything to do with Rachel's inability to handle Daniel's "episodes". Although she wanted to tear in to her for it a little, Quinn knew it wouldn't do any good. Rachel never talked about why she was so averse to dealing with the trials of parenting a child with Asperger's Syndrome, but was always quick to point out when Quinn wasn't doing something right. Rachel babied their son as a way not to deal. She let him get away with some of the worst behavior when he was younger, claiming he didn't know any better. Quinn had wasted so much breath arguing that AS didn't allow him to escape punishment for hitting Josh or other children when he was angry. Nor did it protect him from being reprimanded for throwing objects across rooms, or purposely breaking things that weren't his. He wasn't exempt from discipline. She once gave him a time-out on the 82nd floor observatory of the Empire State Building. Passersby found it funny and cute to see his sniffling, stuttered promise to "be a listening boy now, Mommy."

Celebrity Rachel Berry had been mortified, holding a teary eyed Joshua with a bright red hand print staining his face. The then five-year-old Daniel could pack quite the wallop. Quinn had been livid but remained calm, talking to him and explaining what he did wrong and why he couldn't behave that way. The movie star wandered off with Josh and wouldn't even look at her wife or son until they got home. Three days after that Santana Lopez, acting on behalf of the Fabray-Berry family, filed an injunction and demanded a gag order against the united American Media Association and any freelancers, making it illegal for pictures or rumors about their underage offspring to be printed, published, or posted on the internet. If private individuals did so, the tabloids and or web domains were responsible for removing such content. Much like when YouTube policed its site for copyright infringement, today's media had the choice of voluntarily censoring itself, or being court ordered to do so. A lawsuit and possible criminal prosecution lay in their future if they didn't comply. Quinn was angry to see the extreme to which Rachel had gone and how she used Santana to do it, but other celebrity parents joined the effort and it spiraled from there. And, so far, no one in the media had the brio to go up against someone as popular and beloved as America's Sweetheart, Rachel Berry. She may not have been able to handle Daniel particularly well, but she'd fight tooth and nail to protect him and his siblings. Even to the impairment of the free press.

Hazel eyes took in the brunette with fresh perspective. No, she didn't always know how to show it, but Rachel loved their son unconditionally. Knowing each of them would go to the ends of the earth for their children was a comfort in this uncomfortable limbo of marital discord. If not wives, they were still parents together. And had to stay that way. Quinn needed that and she'd do whatever Rachel asked to have it.

"I was going to stay on the couch, but they wanted to cuddle. So, I'm apologizing," she hurried to finish as soon as she heard Rachel's deep intake of breath. "I'm apologizing for taking your bed. That's all." Saying "your" instead of "our" yanked at her heart, but it was necessary. And a fact.

Rachel wiped her hands on her jeans. Her really tight and form-defining jeans. Quinn finally surveyed the body she'd overlooked earlier. Sweet Lord, the woman looked good. Exhaustion was evident on her face, but her figure was fit and every bit reminiscent of the body Quinn swore devotion to in high school. Rachel was like Demi Moore had been in her forties: hotter than she'd been as a younger woman. She shook herself out of her appreciation of Rachel's curvature once she realized the woman was speaking.

"I can accept that. And," Rachel paused as though her next words were sickening to say. "Thank you. For being here with them. I hadn't planned to be out so late."

Quinn knew an opening when she saw one. "Can I ask what you were doing? I'm only curious, not trying to be confrontational." Damn, Rachel didn't want her talking like that anymore.

"Working. I wrapped a new album last night." There was no joy in that statement, which was odd: Rachel always got excited about recording.

"Congratulations." Quinn's smile was small, but genuine. "That's really great for you."

A head of dark hair boobed once. All was quiet again, and Rachel still wasn't looking at her. Maybe that made it easier for her. Quinn figured that was the end of the conversation. She'd have to apologize to the kids later for leaving before they woke. If she was lucky, Rachel would help soften the blow for them.

Quinn finished her coffee and walked toward the sink, toward Rachel, with measured steps. She planned to set the empty mug in the sink, but her arms weren't long enough to reach it unless the smaller woman moved a little to the right. So she stretched as best she could, afraid of touching her wife for fear of upsetting her. She held back a sigh. How had they come to this? How had they gotten so off track?

The mug settled in the basin, soundless. Success. She retracted her arm slowly, not willing to risk spooking the woman she wasn't sure she could walk away from again. However, she had to find the strength to do so. It was clear she wasn't welcome to stay.

"Where have you been, Quinn?"

Air shuttled out of her lungs at the sound of her name coming from her wife's mouth. She caught the underlying pain in the whispered question. Chiefly, she caught what Rachel was really asking.

Abandoning rationale and her instinct to defend herself and actions wasn't easy, but she did it. "I got lost, Rach," she said quietly. "I got so lost. Caught up in unimportant things and forgot how to see what really matters."

Every piece of her was screaming to touch Rachel. Even to place a hand on her arm and just feel her warm skin would have placated the starving soul inside her. She didn't. She waited, ready to walk whatever path Rachel charted. Quinn studied the woman's profile, frowning when Rachel closed her eyes and brought a hand to her brow in attempt to rub away the visible tension plaguing her. The normally strident superstar folded in to herself, arms wrapped around her middle.

Turning to lean against the sink was the only thing Quinn could think to do. It provided the distance they both needed, small though it was. Like so often before, the two women faced opposite directions, never seeing the same things at the same time in the same way.

She swallowed a sigh, berating herself for thinking this could work. Then came the exquisite weight of Rachel's forehead pressing against her shoulder and heated breath on her skin, bared by her tank top. Quinn's eyelids sealed shut and her heart miscounted its natural cadence. Five months without seeing or speaking to each other, and now they were touching. It may have been only in that one position, and in a place that was far from romantic or intimate, but it meant the world to the emotionally stunted doctor.

"You don't know how much I hate you right now." Rachel's voice regained its vigor.

Quinn suppressed the well of tears forming behind her eyes. Holding back the rest of her hurt wasn't as simple. "Almost as much as I hate myself."

Because there was no way any one person could match such vast loathing for anyone or anything else, present company included. Rachel didn't possess the capacity necessary for containing that amount of abhorrence. Yes, she likely hated Quinn with nearly all of her heart, but there was too much love taking up residence there to leave vacancy for the kind of detestation Quinn deserved. Or so she hoped.

Hot tears scorched down her arm as Rachel's distress fell to fair-toned skin. Quinn was still scared to move, to provide comfort like her titled dictated. She was Rachel's _wife_. It was her job to take care of the woman beside her, not leave her to navigate this emotional mess on her own.

She was just as lost as Quinn. But would she accept an offer of guidance, of a companion to join in the journey through this hell? The doctor had no cure for the cancer eating away at their marriage, but maybe they could face its death together with dignified resignation. Maybe they could be less than the couple they used to be, but more than the unfamiliar persons they'd become.

"This isn't fair."

"I know."

"You don't get to come here and expect everything to be okay."

Honestly, Quinn didn't think that at all. She came to be with the kids. She'd hoped for a chance just to talk to Rachel. What she did expect, however, were tears and recriminations, blame and possibly a slap to the face or small fists beating against her chest in fury. The diva had done all those things before. But this quiet animosity was new. After twenty-five years, Rachel still surprised her.

"I know," she said again.

Rachel chuckled without an ounce of humor. "Do you know what the worst of this is?" She pulled back, but averted her gaze. "I don't really hate you. I want to so, so badly. But I can't. I don't know how. I've tried, and all it does is make me sad."

At this point, Quinn hated herself enough for the both of them.

She failed her so many ways. Redemption wasn't anywhere in her future but the hope they could once day forgive each other swelled within her.

The weight of Rachel against her fell away, and Quinn pivoted to follow. Her left hand slid over Rachel's, still gripping the counter. She skimmed over the tan line from the absent wedding band. She was a fool. She shouldn't be trying to fix this if Rachel really wanted no part of her anymore. Yet there was something inside Quinn that doubted that, telling her it wasn't true.

"Why haven't you filed, yet?" she asked.

Rachel shook her head with a rueful smile. "Because Santana hasn't found a lawyer she, quote, "won't have to shank to keep their mouth shut about a celebrity split." Nice, huh?"

Quinn sucked in her cheeks, not about to mouth off about that being complete bullshit.

Attorney-client privilege in divorce was only negated if the lawyer reasonably believed a criminal act that would result in death or serious injury to an individual was likely to occur. How might she know this? Because she looked in to it months ago. Either one of them could file for separation without a representing attorney, and Quinn had never planned to contest it. The only things they  _might_ need lawyers for were determining joint-custody and the splitting of assets. Santana Lopez, J.D., was feeding her best friend lies. Why?

"Rach?" Her thumb traced over her wife's naked finger, her own ring flickering in the overhead lighting of the kitchen. Rachel didn't pull away and she took it as a good sign. "Do you really want to go through with this?"

Watery eyes swept over her face. "Yes." Rachel sighed then looked at their hands. "And no."

Quinn wanted so much to hold her. She wanted to scream, too. The soaring of her heart at hearing "no" was short lived. "I don't. I want to make this, make  _us_ , work again. Like we used to."

Rachel retreated and busied herself with another cup of coffee. "We can't go back, Quinn. Innovated as our world is, time travel remains ensconced in the realm of science fiction."

"Then let's start over." The words rushed out more forcefully than intended. "I know we can't turn back time or anything, but could we…" she trailed off, suddenly unsure how to say what she felt despite her progress.

"Could we try again? Try being in each other's lives?" She bit her lip and tentatively raised a hand to touch Rachel again, then thought better of it. "Even if divorce is what it comes to, what you want, I still want to be there. For you, and the kids."

Ten seconds of silence from Rachel lit a panic in Quinn's chest. She was about to get desperate. "It's been hell not talking to you. Not seeing y—"

"Then why the hell didn't you call? Why didn't you do something?" In full-on angry, scorned woman mode, Rachel advanced. "You could've called. Told me yourself you wanted to see the kids. Instead you fell off the grid for months! I would've worked with you, Quinn, just like I've been trying to do for years. I would've been overjoyed to get you back in their lives—back in mine!

"But no. You had  _Santana_ do it for you. Do you know how much that hurt? That not only did you want out of our marriage but that you wanted to be rid of me so badly that you had to block me out completely? Do you know what it's like to think your wife doesn't want to admit you exist?" Rachel was shouting and flailing about, her coffee splattering on the pristine flooring.

Yes, Quinn knew exactly how that felt because that's how she'd thought Rachel wanted it. One note of the angry rant jumped out at her, though. "S  _told_ me to leave you alone. She said talking to you after the months it took me to get my shit together enough to even pick up the phone would have hurt you more. That you wanted nothing to do with me. That you weren't ready and might never be." Her hands ran through her hair and locked behind her head, the sharpness of her frustration paralyzing her.

"Don't blame this on Tana!" The vehemence in Rachel's words shocked her.

"You could have called, too," she said, doing her best to stay calm. She didn't want to fight, but it seemed that's all they knew how to do anymore.

"Sure. We both know how well that would have gone. I probably would've interrupted you and whatever slut of a grad student made it to your bed. Must be a nice change from fucking at the lab!"

Quinn whipped irate eyes to her wife, the woman she'd stayed faithful to since their first kiss.. The distrust in those words cut her deeper than if Rachel jabbed a kitchen knife in her stomach. "Is that what you think those late nights were?" Her calm was rapidly dwindling. After all these years,  _why_ did Rachel constantly think Quinn was some adulterous monster?

"If you take nothing else away from our relationship, if you kick me out the door and refuse to have one fucking thing to do with me ever again, know that I never  _touched_ anyone but you. That in my whole life, you're the only person I didn't cheat on."

She was tired of cycling through this argument again. She pushed off the sink and stalked toward Rachel. Grabbing her wrists and pinning her against the refrigerator was all too easy, and the smaller woman looked more angry than afraid. The coffee mug bounced and thudded on the floor, but she paid it no mind, too focused on Rachel. Their position allowed for the closeness Quinn needed, but they weren't touching any place other than where she held Rachel.. "You've been the only one, do you understand?"

No answer.

Her grip tightened and Rachel glared at her. "Do you understand?" she repeated. "You are the only person I've been in love with, the only one I've ever  _made_ love with. The one I promised all of me to, for better or worse, 'til death do us fucking part and all the things that so obviously no longer apply to us, but I  _never_ cheated. There was only you." Quinn's voice lost its harshness, defeated. "There's still only you."

Rachel struggled in her grasp and Quinn released her quickly. She hadn't hurt her. Those delicate wrists weren't even red, nor would they bruise.

Rachel shoved Quinn away until she connected with the edge of the opposite countertop. Granite was a great choice for the décor and practicality of the kitchen, but a bitch on her back. There wasn't time to appreciate the searing fire racing through her nerve endings, however, because Rachel followed and hastily locked her mouths together. It was hard and biting, and Rachel's tongue stabbed its way inside to find Quinn's, but Quinn gave as good as she got.

Her hands flew to Rachel's ass and she twisted them around, tossing the furious woman on top of the smooth stone surface of the counter. Jean clad legs snaked around her immediately and thighs of steel threatened to collapse her diaphragm. Between that and the punishing kisses, Quinn was lightheaded and seeing spots behind her closed eyes.

Rachel's hands were like claws in her hair, nails scouring her scalp. Sex hadn't played a large part in their marriage in recent years. It was sort of standard for birthdays and their anniversary, but didn't necessarily happen. Spontaneity faded from their vocabulary. The last time they made love had been a goodbye, a farewell to what they once were. But now, with Rachel's legs trapping her and her own hands ripping at the navy blue top, Quinn was consumed by the primal need and passion for her wife. Rachel was hers. She was going to prove it.

She broke their kiss to nip Rachel's chin then up and down her jawline. She pushed Rachel's shirt up to reveal the brown skin of her stomach she couldn't get enough of. Her mouth dropped to that delicious plane of muscles, tearing at stupid Levi's jeans while two hands wrapped in her hair and hauled her back into a rough kiss. There was nothing sweet or loving about this. They were wounding each other the only way they knew. Their hips jerked forward and Quinn edged a finger to her wife's wetness.

Rachel grunted and tried to open her legs all the more."Do it.  _Hard._ " Teeth sliced into her earlobe and it seemed like Rachel would break skin.

Quinn groaned and thrust two fingers inside Rachel.

"Hey, you guys want to hear a cool fact about lions?"

Motherfucking hell.

The blonde wrenched her head toward the doorway, ready to order the teen away, but no words would come. Rachel took care of it.

"Daniel! Out! NOW!"

If her ear wasn't bleeding from the bite, it certainly had to be now. Dear God, that powerhouse voice could rupture her eardrum.

Danny jumped at the shouting and ran out of the room, whimpering like a kicked puppy.

Shit.

Quinn pulled out more much gently than she'd entered and was quick to spring away. Space, she needed space. Needed to get away from Rachel. It could have been the splash of ice water their son hurled onto their fervor, but it was more to do with the yelling. Had she not choked, she knew the same words would have come out of her mouth. But not in that tone.

Since having them, she and Rachel had taken great care not to yell at their children. They were firm and spoke in measured anger, yes. But they never yelled. "What was that?"

Clothing straightened, Rachel hopped off the counter and eyed the back door leading to the community garden outside. No, she did not get to avoid this.

"Answer me," Quinn demanded. "What the hell just happened?"

Rachel grabbed a towel to clean up the spilled coffee. Quinn was so pissed she was ready to steal that mug and chuck it at the wall.

"Nothing. It was nothing. Simply displaced anger wrongly interpreted as sexual excitement. I apologize for not recognizing my rage at you for what it really is."

"That's not what I mean and you know it." Quinn hissed through her teeth, worked up in multiple ways. "You had no reason to shout at him like that."

"Are you suggesting we should have continued with him in the room, or that you wouldn't have done the same thing if you hadn't frozen up?"

Quinn couldn't swear to that statement. She watched the manic swipe of the dish towel on the floor and hurried to the sink to wash her hands clean of Rachel. She was done with this bitching.

"You need to apologize."

"For telling him to leave and avoid witnessing the two of us get in a good, angry fuck for old times' sake?" The sneer in her voice was noticeable.

"No." Quinn opened a drawer and pulled out a clean towel to dry her hands, anything to stop from strangling Rachel. "For how you said it. You just scared the shit out of him. Did you see his face?"

"I was startled, Quinn."

"So was I,  _Rachel_ ," she countered. "But I didn't scream at him."

Rachel threw the dirty towel at her. She caught it, barely. "Of course you didn't. You stood there and said nothing, like always."

"Know what?" Quinn reveled in the wet slap of the towel against the sink. "Forget it. I'm going to check on him while you figure out how to tell him you're sorry. Then I'll spare you the trying task of kicking me out."

Quinn stormed out of the kitchen, enraged and suddenly anxious for nine o'clock and the courthouse to open. She was going to file for this goddamned divorce today.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me in the comments? I love hearing your thoughts.


	13. Take Me For A Little While

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Glee. All mistakes and typos are mine.

Fiery tears seared her throat. She swallowed, watching Quinn flee yet another battle. How many times had Quinn run away from a fight and slept in her office instead of their bed? Rachel lost count. Sometimes it was necessary, she conceded. If Quinn hadn't left the room by her own free will, Rachel may have chased her out, lobbing yet another pillow or newly discarded piece of clothing as she undressed for sleep. Although, whenever she'd thrown the latter their arguments ended in sex. Really passionate angry sex that never fixed anything because they didn't talk about the fight afterward, never revisited the problem and let whatever it was fester until yet another night when Quinn would bite her tongue and walk out of their bedroom. Rachel never went after her.

The sudden chirp of the housecom rang throughout the kitchen. Rachel jumped and her hand flew to her chest. She wasn't sure if the rapid palpitations of her heart were from being caught unawares or the lingering effect of Quinn's kisses and touch. The fight and the display of forgotten passion, enraged as she was, left her shaking. So many emotions rolled through the actress that she couldn't name them all, but a few reverberated louder than others. Anger and lust contended for top billing with regret cemented in a supporting role. She wanted to stay mad. Wanted to slam doors and throw things. Wanted to follow the stomp of Quinn's feet up the stairs and pull the blonde back into her arms. Wanted to unpack the stored away box of things Quinn had forgotten, douse its contents in kerosene and have a bonfire in the middle of the bustling intersection of East 49th Street and Second Avenue. She wanted to scream and shout and tell Quinn to go to Hell then beg her to stay and never leave again. She wanted her wife back, and she knew that wasn't possible. The comlink kept ringing and she sighed, not ready to deal with Santana but knowing her friend would keep calling if she didn't answer.

"Voice," she said, wincing at how her throat scratched. There was no way she could handle Santana in light of what she and Quinn almost did moments ago. Neither could she avoid it. "Tana, this isn't a g—"

"Good morning, Ms. Berry." The voice was entirely too cheerful with just a hint of slime. "I hate to break it to you, but it's not your pitbull calling."

Tension coiled in her gut and her body shifted to high alert. Nothing good could come from this. The line of her shoulders straightened and Rachel wiped her features free of any evidence she was upset. "Switch to video."

The com program obeyed and she was face to face with a rotund man who was eight years her junior and had thinning, drab brown hair. It was her trusted manager and public relations representative. Trusted, but no further than she could throw him, which was certainly not enough for Rachel to share any information regarding her disintegrating marriage even though he'd had the privilege of managing and promoting Rachel Berry for the last five years. That was to say, he hadn't done a whole lot for her lately, and she'd seen no need to divulge her personal crises to a man who secured voice-over roles or music records that emotionally ravaged her. Realistically, she'd have to tell him soon. Letting the guy get blindsided by leaked news of Rachel Berry filing for divorce was potentially detrimental to her re-burgeoning career. Behind that ingratiating grin was a shrewd and ruthless businessman who did what was best for his clients, yes, so long as it benefited him, too.

The actress adopted a smile to match that of the media shark on the monitor: sweet, false, and ready to bite. "Good morning to you, as well, Mr. Paige. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"

Geoffrey Paige snorted and reclined in his desk chair, tossing a rubber ball between his hands like a child. Somebody certainly was chipper this early in the day. "I have some bad news."

His face turned somber, but Rachel wasn't fooled.

"Due to this nasty storm, the building we booked for your photo shoot today is unavailable. It suffered a fair amount of damage—something about old power lines and not being equipped for NY-Tricity. Can you believe it? In this day and age? Ridiculous." He waved his hand, looking so shocked that technology could fail.

The hard truth was that nothing was perfect.

Salty foolishness prickled behind her eyes. Right. Because crying about a power outage was far more sensible than crying over her and Quinn's failed relationship. The woman was just upstairs, checking on their son whom Rachel had frightened with her shouting from earlier. How high and mighty of her—Quinn would have yelled at Daniel for inadvertently walking in on them exactly the same if she had the wherewithal to react in time. Rachel suddenly felt like clawing Quinn's eyes out. Then felt guilty. Screw it. She had a job to focus on. _Vanity Fair_ was doing an article about her new album and everything had been set for three hours from now, but clearly that wasn't happening today.

"When did you reschedule for?" She'd need to make sure the kids weren't alone. She'd left them for longer than she'd planned last night and she should have known better. The weather forecast was bad, but she honestly thought the boys were getting better about storms, and Joshua's message held no hint of fear or danger. Still, her absence was inexcusable. She should have been here, should have told Alan to shove it and driven home the minute Joshua texted her. But she didn't. Because Quinn wasn't the only one who'd put work first in the last two decades.

Geoff was smiling. Rachel didn't have a clue what he was saying, but she nodded along in agreement anyway. He'd send details later so she'd make arrangements then and hopefully Santana would be free to stay with the kids if necessary. She just wanted to be done. Rain clouds blocked any hint of the sun and she was ready to curl under her covers for days. "Sounds fine."

The younger man's eyes lit up. She didn't like the look of it. "Really? Oh, they are going to love it!"

"Love what, Geoffrey?"

"Home photos."

_That's_ what she just agreed to?

"This is so exciting!" He poked away at the keys projected on the surface in front of him, his whole body vibrating with enthusiasm. "VF can have their team out to your house in an hour. You don't mind pushing it up, right? Of course not, seeing as how the photo shoot is coming to you. I'm going to call your security provider and have them send over a small detail. A rent-a-cop is better than no cop, am I right?"

His rambling was hypnotic. Rachel lost her objection by means of sheer confusion and the fact that her jaw didn't seem to be able to lift off the floor. A few keystrokes by manicured sausage fingers and her day was set. Everything was spiraling out of her control, if she even had it in the first place.

"Right. Two street-clothed guards will be there to sit on the house and check IDs and passes for VF's personnel and keep the more plebeian press out of your hair and away from your home. Can't be too careful with paparazzi coming out of the shadows now that you're back on the scene." He chuckled to himself.

Rachel saw nothing humorous about this. In fact, it the situation seemed rather grim in her eyes. Instead of her going to a rented venue to participate in a professional, promotional photography session, the photo shoot was coming here. Strangers. In her house. With her family.

"Wait—"

"Mama!"

Ava's happy greeting stole her attention and she spun around to see her daughter leaning dangerously far away from her mommy's arms. She caught the child without conscious thought as Quinn coasted fluidly by, handing her off in a dance they'd done since their first child was born. Just another game of "pass the baby" in the Fabray-Berry household. The little girl began chattering in her ear yet Rachel still heard the opening and closing of the refrigerator and the quiet reminder to say "please" and "thank you" before the babbling ceased and a hungry Ava chugged her morning vitamin shake. It'd be so damned domestic and quaint if she and Quinn could just look at each other.

"Dr. Fabray!"

Geoffrey had such a crush on the taller woman. Rachel hated it. It wasn't because of a physical attraction or even simply misguided admiration, though she really couldn't fault him if either were the case. No, Geoff turned into a giddy moron around Quinn because he was under the impression she could make him more money.

Since becoming Rachel's manager, he'd been pushing for the renowned doctor to use her own "distinguished celebrity" to further Rachel's popularity and possibly expand her fan base. Rachel didn't see how it'd work, but the lout thought they could be the ultimate power couple if Quinn attended more opening nights and again allowed herself to be photographed alongside Rachel just like on red carpets gone by, or as in the invasive shots of them leaving restaurants or shopping together in years past.

When they were much younger, the blonde had been fine with it all. She dealt with her shyness by stepping back among the handlers while Rachel schmoozed with the press, linking their arms only when the hounds found a new celebrity to chase. Most people they knew growing up would be surprised to learn that the former cheer captain and brilliant public speaker was shy, but most people hadn't known Quinn when she'd been Lucy. Not like Rachel had. And she remembered how reticent the girl could be. But  _Quinn_ adapted. An armor built of big hats, aviator sunglasses, scarves, and fake smiles was donned whenever they left the house as the actress grew more recognizable and they accepted the flashing lights and hollered questions as part of Rachel's life, consequently their life. Until the boys were born. That's when the gorgeous blonde fell from Rachel's arm in the public eye and holed herself up at home or in the lab. By the time Daniel was six and Dr. Fabray gained academic acclaim the world over, the two of them hadn't been seen together much in public for years.

It wasn't as though they'd ever hidden their marriage, however. They weren't a famous, attention grabbing couple like Brad and Angelina had been, no. They were more like Diane Sawyer and Mike Nichols—both famous in their fields, but easy to separate because their professions had no crossover—and often garnered a vague "Ohhh yeaaah" response when people remembered they were married to each other. If those people knew who Dr. Quinn Fabray was in the first place. It was public knowledge, plastered on both their Wikipedia pages, but easily slipped the minds of the masses.

"Hi Geoff." Quinn's greeting wasn't rude, but it wasn't very friendly either. Rachel knew it was more to do with their fight than her opinion of the man, which, granted, wasn't very high.

Said man was grinning. "It's so good to see you! How's your sabbatical so far? There was quite the buzz at the office and online when NYU canceled your latest lecture tour—you have to keep me updated on these things, Rachel."

He was scolding Rachel? Her eyes were wide with surprise. This was the first she'd heard of Quinn taking time off. Which made sense, considering the only words they'd spoken in the last five months were this morning.

"Otherwise I truly do have "no comment" when rumors about the two of you need to be confirmed or killed." Geoff giggled.

The couple stared past each other, completely ignoring Geoff's "tsking" sounds. Brown eyes looked on in shock, and a dark shade of red climbed from Quinn's chest up to her cheeks. Unlike before, she was the first to recover.

"That's my fault, Geoff. We didn't say anything because we needed time to ourselves."

A truth wrapped in a lie. Points for Fabray.

"I didn't want you on my ass again with your nonsense, either." Quinn smiled, but the threat to leave her alone or else was implied. Whatever Geoff was planning to sell, she wasn't buying.

He ignored it. "Well, since you're not globe-trotting and saving the world, but clearly at home, I think a few shots of you and Ms. Berry would be wonderful for the direction we're now taking."

Rachel was a statue. She could do nothing but hold Ava and watch and listen to her micro-managing publicist try his hand yet again at persuading Quinn into the non-academic spotlight.

"Flattering, but not happening, Geoffrey, you sweet giraffe."

Rachel snorted into Ava's hair. Being a short, portly man, he'd never understood that reference. He might not even know its origin in the first place. Oh, God. Were they really that old?

"What's a giraffe?" Ava asked and Rachel pursed her lips. The little girl knew her animals, but it was a little early for her young brain to process some things seeing as how late she'd been up last night.

Quinn fielded the question, her tone of voice transforming from snide to sweet and patient. "It's the one that's like a camel with a sooooper long neck but no humps."

The smile she wore while addressing Ava was adorable. She tapped the monitor and banished Geoff to a small box in the lower left corner then proceeded to draw the animal quite quickly. Accurate yet cartoonish, it was…perfect.

Great. Rachel's heart was warming at a picture of the world's tallest mammal. Something was wrong with her.

"Oh. Huh." The tired child looked puzzled but shrugged it off. "I don't 'member that one. Does it live at the zoo?"

"Some do." Quinn's ability to talk to their daughter so easily and frankly was killing her. Doctor or mother, whenever shewas around children she was open and honest. She used to be that way with Rachel, too…

"Can we see them?"

Rachel jumped in, needing a distraction from the sudden onslaught of sorrow. "Maybe someday, sweetheart." Meaning never. She abhorred zoos. Animals in captivity did not meet with her PETA-ness and she refused to go.

Pale cheeks hollowed as Quinn sucked them against her teeth, staring at the floor and suppressing a smirk. Both mothers knew full well Rachel would sooner take Ava on safari in Africa than to a zoo. However, both also knew Quinn had gone behind Rachel's back more than once and taken the kids on adventures to Central Park and Brooklyn zoos. They always came home with the tell-tale signs of dye stained mouths from Streisand only knew how many snow-cones and batons of cotton candy. Prompted by the memories, Rachel hid her own smile in Ava's hair. Sneaky damn Fabray. Still, she was never actually mad about their excursions. In a way it was pretty sweet and a way of spending time with their children while Quinn was home and Rachel was working. Best of all, no one ever recognized or bothered them.

"Kay." Ava went back to snuggling into Rachel's chest, cradling her chocolate shake between them. The adults returned their focus to a now full-screened Geoff and his suspicious ogling.

"And… just how are the trenches of married life these days?" He was perceptive. She'd give him that much. Quinn wasn't playing his game, though.

"All quiet on the Western front, Geoff." Quinn was at the coffee pot, reusing her Dr. Seuss's Horton the Elephant mug. The brunette wondered how far back in the cabinet she'd had to search for that this morning because Rachel hadn't so much as glimpsed it in months and assumed Quinn had taken it with her. Otherwise she would've packed it up in the basement with the few other forgotten possessions.

"I see." Geoff blew out a heavy breath and propped his face in both hands. He looked like a petulant child. "In all seriousness, is there any way I can't get you to pose for pictures with your wife today? It'd do wonders to boost her comeback."

For the first time since returning with their daughter, Quinn looked at Rachel albeit peripherally. Although she didn't want to, the diva had to admit a photo op with the two of them would pique more interest in her than any new album might. She bit her lip in suspense of the taller woman's reaction and rested her cheek atop Ava's unmoving head; her replica had fallen back to sleep.

Sharp hazel eyes moved back to Geoff's pouty face on the comscreen. "It'll help Rachel? Like, really help?"

Rachel's breath caught and her gaze locked with Quinn's. The privacy-demanding doctor was actually considering it? Geoff was quick to answer.

"Without question. You could even throw in the kids. It'd be gossip gold. But, you know, in a tasteful, homey way."

"I can be in pictures?" Apparently Ava was not, in fact, asleep.

The mothers watched the pros and cons weigh in each other's eyes. Somehow the ability to speak without words in regard to their children was returning. It was ironic that when it came to their kids, the Fabray-Berry women didn't need words to communicate even if they didn't agree. If only so much could be said for themselves. Yes, having a huge family photo spread would push curiosity in Rachel over the top, but she wasn't too keen on exploiting their children for her popularity's sake. It didn't look like Quinn was, either.

"How about this," Geoff interrupted their silent conversation. "I'll draw up a new contract giving the folks at _Vanity Fair_ fair use of any pictures of the two of you while you retain exclusive legal rights to photos of the kiddos and can publish them—or not—if you choose. It will include the right to revoke consent and privilege if you later change your mind about releasing them for public consumption."

"They'll agree to that?" Rachel asked, holding Quinn's stare.

"They'll jump at the chance. I bet my career they'd sign anything just to get a shot of the back of their heads." He'd be making good on that wager if this backfired. Rachel would find a way to ruin him. Quinn would just kill him.

The two used the pause to continue their silent debate. Then Quinn opened her mouth, talking directly to Rachel for the first time since their fight. "If it'll help, and if you think it's okay… I'm all right with it."

Rachel swallowed and shifted Ava higher on her torso, propping the child with her right arm while rubbing her left hand up and down her back and swaying side to side, just to have something to do. They could change their minds. They could keep the media cards and digital images. They could renege if they felt uncomfortable in any way. And if that happened, Geoff would still have pictures of herself and Quinn to sell to the magazine, just like he wanted. All fretting and the certain advantages to her aside, she wished she knew why Quinn was agreeing to this.

A memory of high school flashed through her mind and she closed her eyes, remembering blushing pink cheeks downcast eyes as a teenage Quinn confessed how exactly the fledgling glee club got a whole page in the McKinley yearbook their sophomore year. Rachel hadn't known about the confrontation with the Cheerio coach until well after the girls began dating. And when she'd asked what prompted Quinn, who she thought hated her at the time, to do that for the group, the response astonished her: _"I didn't do it for the club, Rach. I just knew how much_ _you_ _wanted it."_

The stirring against her breast felt more like her stilted heart than Ava's restless teetering in and out of sleep. Here they were again, Rachel wanted something and Quinn was willing to take on the Sue Sylvester of the PR world to get it for her.

She kissed the top of her daughter's head, too overwhelmed to hold that light green gaze staring at her in such raw tenderness.

"Only if they want to," Rachel said. There was no way she was forcing her children into this. And if one of them said no, none of them would be photographed at all.

Quinn's voice was soft, supportive. "Only if they want to."

The distance between them didn't seem as great, suddenly. Even if they were on opposite sides of the kitchen, they were finally on the same side of an issue.

Geoff clapped his hands, startling both of them. He beamed at them as if they could shoot sunshine out of their butts like a party trick. Terrific.

"Well then! I've got calls to make and a contract to write. I'll even send a copy to your Rottweiler to double check it if you like."

Quinn grunted, and Rachel nodded absently. Everything kept coming back to Santana and she didn't like it. Though she really, really didn't want to, she believed Quinn's claim of the Machiavellian Ms. Lopez keeping them apart. Partly because they'd been together for so long that it was impossible not to spot the bona fide confusion when the topic of Santana as mediator arose, and how angry hazel eyes narrowed at the idea that the lawyer might be playing the part of the rabble-rouser more than that of a soothsayer. But it was mainly because she actually did still trust Quinn not to lie to her.

Rachel sure had a funny way of showing it, though.

Her insecurities about her worth as a wife first surfaced when it seemed the doctor was more invested in her medicine than in Rachel. At her core, she knew Quinn was loyal to her, upholding their vows of commitment made years before they actually wed. But it was little consolation on cold nights when her vivid imagination tortured her with agonizing images of the blonde in bed with another woman. It made her lash out, hurling unfounded accusations of infidelity during the times she should have been happy to have Quinn home in her arms, and she'd done it again this morning, repeating her mistakes.

Geoff had signed off sometime during her internal admonition.

Ava had fallen back to sleep on her shoulder.

Quinn was staring at her, curious but wary.

"I'm sorry."

The taller woman started a little, obviously not expecting that. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel said again. "I shouldn't have said those things earlier."

A sad, polite smile thinned out the lips that'd bruised hers less than thirty minutes ago. "You needed to say it. I get that, I guess."

"I know," Rachel swallowed, thickly. "I know you nev—"

"Never." Quinn spoke with conviction and Rachelfelt more ashamed for letting her anxieties get the best of her. The strong voice softened. "And I'm not holding it against you. I just don't understand how after all this time, you still think so little of me. Still doubt me so much."

Even if Rachel had an explanation, this wasn't the time or place to discuss it. Not with Ava in the room, unconscious or otherwise. Quinn knew it, too.

"How's Daniel?"

Quinn sighed, placing her empty mug on the counter. "I don't know. I didn't make it that far." She gestured to Ava, "This one was up and looking for you, so..."

A silence so awkward it was painful reigned over them.

"You were right." It was soft, but she heard it.

"About?"

Quinn huffed out a bitter laugh. "Lots of things. But I meant about Danny. You weren't wrong in how you reacted when we were…" She blushed. It was sort of endearing. "Anyway, it was stupid of me to get mad when I would have done the same thing. Like you said."

Rachel had no response. She wasn't used to this open and compromising version of Quinn anymore. Things just got uncomfortable and she felt the need to run. Rachel glanced at the clock on the coffee pot screen.

"Listen, I'm going to start breakfast. Can you take her back to bed and wake up Thing One and tell him what's going on today?"

Quinn stepped only close enough to take the limp bodied little girl, leaving Rachel grasping the half-finished chocolate vitamin shake.

"And could you ask Daniel to come down here? Please. So I can grovel, I guess."

Rebellious blonde locks obscured Quinn's face as she nodded. Rachel spotted a smile. An honest to God smile. The kind that made her wife look almost goofy. Rachel couldn't help but return it. Perhaps today wouldn't be as bad as she'd thought.

Carrying their daughter as though she weighed less than a feather, Quinn left the kitchen much more calmly than she had earlier. Rachel's eyes followed in appreciation of more than one kind. The smile on her face faded from friendly to a subdued bite of her lip as she watched the flex of defined biceps, the tightening of a firm backside, and swaying hips as the doctor walked away. Heat rose to her cheeks and the ache between her legs—the ache Quinn created—reestablished itself.

The comlink wailed in her ears and she flinched, spilling the breakfast drink down the front of her shirt. Oh, for the love of Liza!" Rachel whirled around and answered the incoming call while reaching for a dish towel. "What Geoff?"

"Just letting you know you have two hours before hair and make-up arrive."

She hissed through her teeth, trying to remain civil to the man who'd scared the hell out of her. "Yes. Thank you. Goodbye, Geoffrey."

"And Rachel," he interrupted before she could end the call.

" _WHAT,_ Geoff?"

Shrewd eyes narrowed in on hers and she shivered under the scrutiny, experiencing the same terrifying mortification she'd felt her senior year upon getting suspended from school. She gulped, drinking in the realization that he just _knew_ something wasn't right. And that it was something that could ground her comeback before it had a chance to take off. Geoff's voice undercut her fear and his face was vaguely belittling.

"You might want to put your wedding ring back on."

She didn't even attempt to come up with an excuse. Or to speak at all. Her head nodded once.

"Excellent." Geoffrey flattened both hands on his desk, shoulders tense and smile tight. "Enjoy your day, Mrs. Fabray-Berry."

The screen went blank and Rachel was left in quiet.

 

 


	14. Danny Boy

Quinn lay on her stomach, typing away on her laptop while she translated the latest data from Jonah into a bare bones article. Their research was coming along nicely with continued progress, if it was a bit slow going at times. It was harder for her lately. Having been out of the lab for a few months then diving back in six weeks ago was unplanned and she was still adjusting. She'd like to say her brief vacation was restful, but no. The first month was an unseasonably humid September. It was uncomfortable, spent mostly in bed, and left her feeling more stuffed than a Thanksgiving turkey. The rest of it was sleep deprived, loud, and stressful. Despite these few downsides, plus Josh's occasional bouts of jealousy and increased possessiveness of his mama, the Fabray-Berry household had taken up permanent residence on cloud nine.

A shrill but not entirely unhappy squeal to her left brought a small smile to her face and she turned, looking at the source. She saved her work and powered down the computer then twisted, resting on her side and propping her head in her right hand. The other hand reached to splay over the belly of the miniature person next to her. She covered it; the width of her palm and the length of her fingers surpassed the rounded stomach and chest as she rubbed in circles. "Hi baby."

Dark, lucid eyes stared up a the brightly colored shapes dangling from the crossbar mobile above the fabric floor mat the child was lying upon. He wasn't the biggest fan of tummy time, but he loved lying on his back and watching the plushy, imaginative Dr. Seuss creatures hanging down before him. At nearly five months old, Daniel was a pretty tranquil baby. No, cuddling never lasted long, and he'd rather sit facing away from whomever was holding him, if he was in the mood to be held at all. But he loved to laugh and peek-a-boo was the greatest thing in the world to him. He didn't babble like his brother had, but if there was one thing she'd learned in her time as a pediatrician it was that each baby was different from the rest, siblings included. But he loved his mama's voice. He may not have initially responded with turns of his head or fidgeting his body to get closer, but he calmed and would settle to the sound of it if an irritable temperament presented. Even if unhappy tears were rolling down the round hills of his cheeks, all Rachel had to do was sing and he was as golden as the flecks in his eyes.

They were a rich brown to match the mess of hair so dark it was nearly black. It curled everywhere. There were frizzy kinks at the back of his neck, and whirly ringlets encompassed the rest of his head, some already long enough to dance over his forehead. He was so soft, too. The bumps of baby acne he'd had as a newborn were gone and the smooth skin was now only decorated by a single, minuscule mole on his right cheek. It mirrored his mama's perfectly, as did his brown complexion and lengthy ebony lashes.

Quinn smiled at his sporadic gurgles. Although she and her wife had no plans to ever find out for sure, she knew their son wasn't genetically hers. Put him next to Joshy and it was obvious they were brothers, being from the same donor and all, but nothing about him was Fabray-ic.

She'd felt it from the beginning of the pregnancy. While the self-proclaimed psychic diva was guaranteeing another boy, Quinn had been convinced from the get-go that, son or daughter, this baby was her wife's. Carrying him had been so different than carrying Josh. She loved them the exact same — which was infinite — but there was an added thrill knowing she had  _Rachel's_ child growing inside her because she was keeping her promise: she was having Rachel's baby.

A spit bubble popped and a gummy grin appeared beneath her. Danny looked up at her and kicked his feet in the air. Quinn was absolutely charmed. "Hey sweet boy."

He actually tilted his head at the sound while he angled his body to raise his legs in the air. His hearing was fine, he was just developing a very determined personality that seemed to be a little single-minded so far and didn't consistently react to speaking voices. Sing to him though, and he was all ears. Infant hands grabbed infant feet and Daniel curled like a potato bug as he rocked side to side, very much a happy baby.

"You know they named a yoga position after that?"

Daniel tried to eat his foot.

"Yes, you're ahead of the curve. Doing yoga before you can even sit up properly. Very modern. Maybe I'll stop pumping so we can switch your bottles to Starbucks or those gross kelp smoothies your mama drinks for when I'm at work. What do you think of that,  _boychickel_?" She tickled his belly and her soul carried away on his laugh. Nothing in the world made her feel as light and whole as hearing her children laugh. Except for Rachel. Her wife's laugh, so big and carefree, was definitely up there, too.

Daniel rolled back and forth, his direction switching to the side of whichever foot he was trying to shove in his mouth. Quinn frowned; his nose was running again.

As a doctor, she was used to bodily fluids from children. As a mother, she honestly didn't notice it much. She wiped away the viscous discharge with the cuff of her sleeve and pondered it a little. It wasn't a cold. He was too mild-mannered right now for it to be that, and so he certainly wasn't cranky enough to have an ear infection. She'd checked him again for one this morning anyway. He'd been more interested in her stethoscope, however, while Dr. Fabray examined her son. Playing with him, she'd swung it above him like a pendulum, using it to test his tracking just for the hell of it. If she had to, she'd say he already had the 20/20 vision most other children achieved at six months of age. Chances were he'd retain it well into adulthood just like Rachel. His brother, however… Quinn shook her head. They'd be lucky if Josh wasn't walking into walls by the age of twelve. Poor kid. Early adolescence would not be kind to him. However, she had faith Daniel would come out relatively unscathed. His mama was gorgeous, and he was already following in her footsteps.

The nonsensical sounds continued in their angelic, garbled strands. "Aww, you singing, baby?"

Kind of like whalesong, babysong was a language all its own.

"I like your song, Daniel." Quinn's lips twitched into a grin. "You have lots of songs, do you know that?"

More spit bubbles frothed like ocean foam.

"It's true. There's one very special one, too. In fact, it's how you got your name because your mama's crazy like that."

Danny furrowed his forehead and Quinn smoothed her fingertips over the wrinkles before tracing along his cheeks. The infant released his feet and captured her finger, staring at it with curious eyes. Then he took it into his mouth and gnawed away like a puppy with a chew toy.

"Are you hungry or just playing?" She glanced at her watch on the same hand. Feeding time was close enough, she supposed. The mother tugged her finger away and her son's cry pierced her ears. Definitely hungry. "Got it, thanks."

Feeding him as they were, lying down like this, occurred to her but she ultimately decided against it. He was too wiggly today and she really didn't feel like cleaning breast milk out of the carpet if he pulled away too quickly mid-snack. No, she'd rather wash her shirt or maybe even a burpcloth when that happened. If only one day he'd actually get the burpcloth instead of her.

"How come you never spit up on Mama, huh? It's always me." Quinn stood up and stretched. She grabbed the Boppy — an invention more genius and crucial to humanity than everything other than penicillin — off the floor. She tossed the crescent shaped pillow to the couch and unbuttoned her shirt while the baby voiced his displeasure at being kept waiting. "I hear you, I hear you."

Her breasts felt fuller than they had three minutes ago. The wonders of the human body and its primal responses to certain stimuli. She swooped him up like a hawk catching a mouse, but lovingly so, not in a "hey I'mma gon eatchu" kind of way seeing as how the circumstance was rather the opposite.

"And here I was all excited to come home and see you stripping."

Quinn looked away from her son to see Rachel shaking snow off her shoulders and walking into the living room. The doctor cocked an eyebrow then rolled her eyes, mentally rejoicing that her wife still found her attractive even though not all the pregnancy weight was gone yet. Insecurity about her body still endured from a childhood primarily spent overweight, so knowing Rachel wanted her, thin or bloated like an inflatable pool toy (that  _couldn't_ float), was ego-boosting and encouraging. However, she was still getting rid of the baby weight as soon as possible. An existence as miserable little Lucy Caboosey was not something Quinn ever wanted to be subjected to or consider ever again. Moving to sit with her back propped against the arm of the couch and drawing up her knees, she maneuvered Boppy and baby until they rested comfortably, tucking in for feeding time. The fact that it hid her bit of a paunch was more than a bonus. "Sorry to disappoint, Rach."

The actress laid her coat on the far end of the sofa then tilted back her wife's face back and dropped a kiss on Quinn's mouth.

"You never disappoint. Besides, if it's in the name of feeding our son then I guess I can let it go." She teased the point of her tongue across Quinn's lips then smiled. "For now."

The two shared another kiss hello, slow and sensual. Quinn shivered and opened for just a little bit more of her wife's taste. Then Daniel bit down.

She cursed into Rachel's mouth and pulled back. "Really, Danny? Really?" He didn't even have teeth but it was like a damn piranha was at her nipple.

"And how is our little vampire today?" The diva took care to keep her voice soft.

"Bitey. How was the read-through?"

"Bitchy. When is Joshua coming home?"

Quinn's face was both serious and excited. "San called and said since he was so chill and not cramping her style too much she wouldn't mind if he stayed for a while. I heard the Imperial March playing in the background so I'm pretty sure it's going to be a  _tía y sobrino_ bonding marathon for the rest of the weekend."

Rachel's jaw plummeted, her eyes wide. "She's keeping him the whole weekend?"

Quinn nodded. "So she said."

"Santana Lopez is a saint."

"Aaaaaand I'm pretty sure you just triggered the Apocalypse," Quinn said, only half kidding.

Rachel stuck her tongue out then asked, "What do you want for dinner?"

Hazel eyes turned playful and Quinn mmhmmmed. "Can you come around from behind the couch?"

"Okay... Why?"

"So I can see what I want for dinner."

Rachel huffed and leveled Quinn with a good-humored glare. "You eat real food and keep that boy healthy…" She came around to stand behind the woman sitting on the couch, staying out of sight before leaning down and nibbling a sensitive ear lobe. "And I'll give you whatever you want."

She groaned and her head fell back. Rachel planted a few quick kisses to her neck then rested her chin on Quinn's exposed shoulder as they both watched their son eat  _his_ dinner.

"He's perfect."

"He is."

"He's ours."

"Yeah. He really is."

They were quiet for a while, content to gaze on in awe at the little boy suckling away. When it came time to switch breasts, Rachel climbed over the arm of the couch and trapped herself between it and Quinn's body.

"Lean back, baby."

Quinn complied, sinking into the warmth. The heat and pressure from the shorter woman made feeding comfortable instead of merely tolerable. They locked together, watching yet to close brown eyes haze over and become heavy. The nursing mother turned her head to nuzzle into her wife's neck, and Rachel slid an arm around to help cradle Daniel's head in one hand while the other threaded through the blonde's long hair.

"People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one…"

Quinn relaxed a little more, readily submerging herself in the peace of the moment as Rachel continued singing. Daniel was fighting sleep, but his mama was clearly making it difficult to stay awake. She, too, was falling victim to the lulling melody. So she closed her eyes and let the sweet voice take her away.

"And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes and tell me ev'ry thing… is gonna be all right." Tender lips pressed to Quinn's temple and warm breath ghosted over her ear. "Yeah, it's gonna be all right."

The tired woman sighed, feeling the blessed, breathy snore against her breast. Their little boy was out. Her movements were slow as she shifted him to rest on her shoulder. His head nestled with hers and Rachel's, and she gently rubbed her hand over his back. "See Danny?" she whispered, tucking further into her wife and experiencing serenity in its purest form. "I told you you had a song."

 

 


	15. The Shape of Things to Come

The banging of pots and pans was oddly gratifying to Rachel as she rummaged in the kitchen cupboards. The skillet was missing, thwarting all plans for pancakes.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Pancakes were comfort food and she'd made them more often in the last few months than she remembered making in the previous year. Today was not for comfort, however. Today was about confrontation and having the courage to meet it. Today she'd be cordially combating mongrels of the media as they invaded her home and her family's privacy.

It wasn't that she was overly concerned about what she'd agreed to, it was just that this was a circumstance she never thought she'd be in. Family photos while their very foundations crumbled beneath their feet? Conceited about her talent, and rightly so, the diva had to admit she wasn't sure she was a good enough actress to play the role of happy wife and mother. Conflicting emotions flooded every part of her, drowning out her rational mind: anxiety, excitement, desire, anger, and the need for general catharsis. It was barely after seven in the morning and she was ready to cry. But she couldn't. She had to hold it together and ignore the reality that her almost ex-wife was here and wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. Whether that was a good or bad thing was still debatable. But she'd deal with it; she had to. She was Rachel Barbra Ber—no. Not today. Today she was Rachel Barbra Fabray-Berry no matter if she wanted to be or not. Well, the world was about to learn that Rachel Barbra Fabray-Berry was a hell of a lot stronger than most people gave her credit for.

"Mama?"

The low baritone behind her was more fitting to a man than a thirteen-year-old child. She pivoted on her toes, still crouched on the kitchen floor. From this angle Daniel looked even bigger than he was. Which was huge. It was disconcerting to say the least, and she believed the fertility clinic's questionnaire for donors was insufficient in its informational requirements. It would have been nice to know that the sperm donor with the glowing bill of health and outstanding family medical history just  _happened_ to be a descendant of Goliath. Unless Daniel's enormousness came from some strange genetic phenomenon on her side, which… No, Goliath DNA was far more plausible.

She was afraid for him. For many reasons. Rachel shuddered to think of the real world dangers she couldn't protect him from. Things her fathers couldn't protect her from. Daniel would have it worse. Harder. The most innocent of her worries was that he might be teased for his height just like she'd been teased for her lack thereof. The majority of names she'd been called as a teen were cruel jibes at her nose or short stature. She'd learned to love her nose. It made her unique. But, oh, how she'd wished for years for another growth spurt to strike. Then maybe the bullying would no longer occur and she'd have felt comfortable with her body much earlier in her life. However, that didn't happen until later: only when she realized how perfectly she fit with Quinn did Rachel accept her petite size. Because then she'd understood she was built to be in Quinn's arms.

Maybe that was why her body was breaking as easily as her heart.

Daniel stared at her, wide eyed and uncertain. He looked like a trapped wild animal, not necessarily understanding why he was asked to be here but knowing he didn't like it and wanted to escape. The hurried tapping of nails that most likely needed trimming redirected her thoughts. It was a nervous habit that bugged her more often than not. She sighed and stood up. He immediately stepped back. They were long past the days when she'd have to coax a young Daniel away from Quinn, but the fact that she was used to this didn't numb her to the pain of her son rejecting her.

Rachel wasn't ready for it when Quinn caught it. Because it wasn't something any parent could be ready for. There were a few small signs, enough that the doctor convinced her that they needed to get him evaluated. She regretted not listening to her wife sooner. Maybe if he'd been diagnosed earlier, Daniel would be better adjusted The doctors said there were old cases of kids with Asperger's who almost "out grew" it, simply meaning that they learned how to adapt and thrive on their own better than some others with ASD but it was always there. It wasn't something that could be out grown. It was who her son was. Part of him, she meant.

She and Quinn didn't want to get on the wait-and-see bandwagon though. Nor was either of them in favor of trying the drug treatments that'd been newly available at the time. Once he was diagnosed, they enrolled in parenting workshops where they would learn how to best accommodate whatever needs Daniel might have while he had appointments with the best clinicians in the state who helped him with behavioral issues, personal interactions and anticipate and correct any problems with communication that might arise.

So that's what they did. Quinn never left once during those initial two years of their son's diagnosis. Rachel couldn't say the same.

"Hi honey. Sorry. Mama spaced out for a sec."

His broad shoulders shrugged up to his ears. He'd learned what that meant and to repeat it a while ago, but Rachel wondered if it felt as clumsy and unnatural as it looked. "You do that a lot."

"Yeah...I've just been really distracted lately," she mumbled.

Daniel looked frightened in the sense that he wasn't sure what he was "supposed" to say, but wanted to say something. Just to please her. She abhorred that look. And it ruined her any time she was the cause of it—that shemade him feel uncomfortable.

She smiled listlessly and clucked her tongue. Appraising her son, an idea came to mind. It was inadequate for an apology, but she hoped it'd make him even a little bit happy.

"How do you feel about scrambled eggs for breakfast?"

"Can there be bacon?"

Rachel chuckled quietly, knowing that in spite of his lack of intonation, Daniel was indeed interested in the bacon. Her own selectively vegan lifestyle ended as soon the FDA approved  _in-vitro_ meat. She still didn't eat dairy products, but she felt less guilty about feeding her family eggs as long as they were from their own Turtle Bay community chickens. Foregoing the skillet to the black hole of the cupboard, she retrieved a frying pan instead. She wanted to see her son's smile, and not the one he used in public because he'd deduced that that's what people do, but the one that took over his whole face because the joy inside him was too big to contain.

"There's always bacon with eggs, sweetie." Seconds later the burner was lit and the pan heating. "Do you—Would you like to help?" She tried for an ice breaker, unsure how to begin.

"No." It wasn't malicious or angry in any way. Like most times, his voice was rather straightforward.

"All right. Can you at least get the food out of the fridge for me?"

Daniel complied robotically, a sign he was nervous and frustrated by being so, which made him more tense. Rachel needed fortification if she was going to get through this. Talking to him could be so hard. She didn't always know how to relate to him and it was her own fault. Joshua and Ava were so emotionally accessible, but Daniel wasn't as easy for her to read. The guilt-ridden mother knew it was because he didn't understand and couldn't really interpret the facial expressions of others. Instead, he'd learned to copy them. It wasn't until he was ten that he could make eye contact with people outside of their immediate family or his  _tía_. But Rachel didn't get him. Constantly second guessing if he was actually okay. She never knew how to deal when he was in one of his moods, not like Quinn did. Not like how Quinn took the time to teach and encourage Daniel to (among other things) meet the gazes of others, and speak up when he felt sad or mad. Even still, that practice wasn't a consistent one and had deteriorated since Quinn moved out. Their son was unintentionally closed off to begin with, and this divorce was making it worse. More terrible, she had yet to talk in depth with him about it. Because she was closed off, too.

Delaying, Rachel moved to the coffee pot and poured her third cup of the day. She didn't know if her jittery hands were due to the caffeine or trepidation of speaking to him. Joshua was so much better at this kind of thing. He'd been the one handling whatever questions Daniel may have had—questions Joshua didn't have answers to. Questions  _she_ didn't have answers to. She couldn't even call it a divorce because she wasn't sure if Daniel would truly comprehend that. So, like she'd done with Ava, she renamed it. Mama and Mommy were simply "living in separate houses" now.

The actress dawdled with her drink, unable to face him. The shame she felt was tremendous and even she couldn't conceal it. Although, she didn't really need to: Daniel wouldn't recognize the disgrace crossing her features for what it was, anyway. Guilt swelled within her. Worst. Mother. Ever.

"Michelangelo didn't invent the dome. Did you know that?"

Her eyes closed and she let out a slow breath. Conversing with Daniel meant listening to him talk about whatever it was that fascinated him at the moment, regardless of one's own interest in the topic. And architecture was his favorite thing in the world aside from barbecue flavored potato chips. Rachel decided to capitalize on the distraction. He was talking to her. That was the important thing.

"Do you mean rediscover?" she asked over her shoulder. If memory served, the dome was "invented" during antiquity by the Greeks or Romans or whoever, then lost to the Dark Ages. Or at least, that's what the textbook of her Western Civilization course had said during her first year of college. No, Rachel didn't have complete and total recall, but she remembered close to everything she read. It was quite advantageous in her career because directors were relatively okay hiring prima donnas so long as they knew their lines. Work was the last thing she wanted to think about right now.

"Yeah. That," Daniel said, breaking her train of thought. "But he didn't do it even though everyone thinks he did."

She couldn't begin to fathom who "everyone" might be. Coffee poured and flavored to perfection, Rachel finally turned around. "Why's that?"

"Because he built the dome of Saint Peter's Basilica." Daniel stared at her seriously. "You know, the one in Rome?"

Faintly amused, the mother smiled. "Yes, I know."

"What's the difference between a basilica and a regular church?"

Rachel's dark eyebrows climbed to her hairline. The woman was truly perplexed. She'd been raised by a decently observant Jew and a cafeteria Catholic. That mixture boiled down to having Hanukkah, Christmas, Passover (then Easter of all things), with a few High Holy Days scattered in between. She wasn't aware there was a hierarchy to houses of worship within the Catholic Church, but she couldn't say she was surprised by it.

"That's one for your mother. You'll have to ask her."

"Oh. Okay." He walked out of the kitchen. Uncooked food in hand.

"Daniel, wait." She put her mug down and jogged to catch him before his long legs carried him too far out of the room. Wordlessly, she took the basket of eggs then tucked the package of bacon under her arm. When he tried to leave again, to seek an answer to his question at that very moment, she reached for his hand. Her hesitation was unwelcome but there just the same. She simply wasn't ready for him to go yet. "Can you tell me the rest of your story? Keep me company?"

Stiff movements led him to the breakfast nook in the corner, but he didn't sit. The tall table and chairs barely reached his waist so he sort of leaned against them, tapping his fingers and occasionally scratching his ear.

She gave him a heartfelt smile and got to cooking. And talking. "So, if Michelangelo didn't rediscover the dome, who did?"

"What? Oh," Daniel needed a moment to remember the topic. "A guy named Brunelleschi."

Rachel glanced back at him so he'd see she was actively listening, because that's what people did when having a conversation. But Daniel could go on and on about something while she read a new script or was folding laundry, never noticing if she was paying attention or not. Still, she found herself rather curious.

"Why didn't he get credit for it then?" If it was that big of a deal, he probably  _did_.

Daniel shrugged, his face mimicking Quinn's silly "don't ask me" expression while his hands raised in the air before they slapped down to tree trunk thighs. "I dunno."

She shook her head, her smile becoming a grin at the childish gesture. He was enormous but he was still her baby boy.

"But he did it before Michelangelo was even born."

"Wow." The mother finished laying the bacon strips in the pan then reached for a mixing bowl and the eggs. "What did Bruneschelli— "

"Brunelleschi."

"Right. What did he do? Dome wise?" It was crucial to add that last bit because Rachel had a feeling any man smart enough to be a Renaissance architect probably had a number of other, non-dome accomplishments. And keeping Daniel focused was the name of the game in all situations.

"He built the top of Santa Maria del Fiore. It's a dome," he clarified for her with that monotone voice, sounding like a burned out teacher begging for retirement. "It's called The Duomo."

And this was clearly turning in to a school lesson. Had anyone else been telling her this Rachel would know her intelligence wasn't being insulted but that she was being teased. But Daniel's sense of humor didn't usually include poking fun at someone or sarcasm. Not that she thought the boy was insulting her or assumed she was stupid, he was just plainly apprising her of a fact.

"How did he do that?" She looked over just in time to see Daniel's eyes spark with delight.

"He was special."

The mother's heart clenched at the involuntary, innocent smile on her son's face. He was beautiful. And so much his own, special, not-so-little self. "Tell me how?"

Large hands waved in unrestrained exhilaration. "Okay, so the guys, the ones in charge of the city, held a contest to see who got to put the dome on the church because that was the part that was still missing from the original plans and he got it because he was smarter than all of them."

Pausing from cracking eggs into the bowl, she lowered the flame beneath the frying pan and turned to him, fully paying attention. It was more due to how animated he'd become than the topic, though. And she didn't feel guilty about that. Like any mother, she loved it when her children were happy, but Daniel hadn't been happy lately. Not that one could really tell based merely on appearance. He'd been bouncing through a number of emotions, which upset him because he couldn't always put a name to those feelings, he just knew he didn't feel  _good_. If discussing things like this would make and keep him this happy, Rachel was downloading all the books and information on dead Italian architects her tablet could hold, solely so she could talk with her son and see him like this all the time.

"How'd he win the contest, honey?" She was genuinely engrossed in his tale.

The boy was beaming, his teeth gleaming white. He hurried over to her and grabbed an egg from the basket. He then proceeded to crack it open — not over the bowl, but on the edge of the countertop. Yolk and egg white went all over the surface and began dripping down to the floor.

Rachel was flabbergasted. "Daniel— "

"He broke an egg."

Well, clearly.

He went on to explain, caught up in the tale instead of his mother's astonishment.

"The city guys made all the, umm, competitors balance an egg upright but no one could."

She maintained the conversation simply as a reflex. "Except Brunesch— "

"Brunelleschi," he corrected her.

"Right. Him." She was too preoccupied with the stickiness and possible Salmonella slathered on her granite counter and the dollops falling to the ground. The dish towel she'd used to wipe Ava's vitamin shake off her shirt was in hand and ready to clean it up, but Daniel's shout stopped her.

"No, look!" He gestured to the remnants of the eggshell. "That's how he did it. They couldn't make their eggs stand up and be domes because they were whole, but he broke his like this."

Big hands picked up the empty halves and turned them upside down, until the rounded ends pointed skyward. Making not one, but two domes.

"He had to break it to make it stronger."

Rachel's world stopped and all the air in the distance between them disappeared.

Oh God. Dry lips parted and she sucked in a tremulous breath. Her stare switched back and forth between her son's happy, proud smile and the pair of eggshell domes, but all she could really see was Quinn. How everything they were fell apart. How their marriage fractured. How they'd broken each other just as easily as Daniel had broken that egg. Broken it. To make it stronger.

Dumbfounded, Rachel was fixed where she stood. Miracles were real, she believed that. But epiphanies…? A bolt of insight all but bored its way into her brain. This was it. Her Aha moment. She was suspended from the world, wanting to shout "Eureka!" like a fool who'd stumbled upon a kind of clarity she didn't earn.

She sniffled, willing back the sudden moisture gathering in her eyes.

He may have ASD; he may have sensory integration issues that make some sounds unbearable, like the clamor of crowds or thunder, or not realize the volume of his own voice when he was agitated or excited; he may have been well on his way to becoming a short-tempered, angst-battered teenager who might not understand why he got angry or knew what to do about it; but Daniel Leroy Fabray-Berry was a Goddamned genius.

Rachel swallowed gruffly, knowing it was pointless to try speaking without doing so. Yet her voice was little more than a tearful rasp. " _Boychickel_? Can I have a hug?"

The brightness in those deep brown eyes he'd gotten from her doubled. The massive teen bent low and rested his cheek on her shoulder. His arms encircled her middle while she stretched to wrap hers around his sizable body. She kissed his hair and rubbed as much of his back as she could reach.

It didn't last long, partly to do with the awkward angle of their vast height difference and partly to do with his dislike for too much physical contact. They let go. But not before Rachel planted a kiss on her son's scruffy cheek.

Daniel rolled his eyes and wiped his face. "Eww."

 _Now_ he was teasing her, so she stood on her tiptoes while pulling him closer just so she could do it again. She was his Mama. It was some sort of rule that she was supposed to embarrass him. "Oh, you so need to shave today."

Not only was the thirteen-year-old tall like the biblical Philistine warrior little David took out with a sling-shot, but he was as hairy as a bear, too. It was insane, but Daniel was a 6'4" seventh-grader who got a five o'clock shadow by three in the afternoon. He was pouting, too. It wasn't as good as hers or Ava's, but close enough.

She poked his belly and reveled in his surprised, doughboy giggle. "Thank you. For the hug and the story."

It was the perfect allegorical anecdote he didn't know she needed.

"And I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier," she said. "You surprised me and I got scared. But I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

Daniel shrugged, passive and unaffected. "It's okay. No one wants to see you guys kiss anyway."

She laughed. Loud and brash, it erupted and flooded the kitchen. Daniel jumped in surprise so she quickly reined it back as best she could. Rachel couldn't help but hug him again, this time her cheek pressing against his wide chest. A single arm lightly came around her, but his shoulders were rigid.

Daniel was evidently done with the hugging. He pulled away. "There's egg on the floor. And the counter."

Indeed there was. And no, he didn't sound the least apologetic, but purely informative.

Rachel gave him the towel. "And you did it."

Her voice was cheery and she returned to the stove, hoping the bacon wasn't burnt. Her son followed, throwing away the brown shells and cleaning up his mess without needing to be explicitly told.

There was a certain elation in knowing how far they'd come in only minutes. And even though she knew she had  _lightyears_ to go, Rachel was happy as long as Daniel was happy. Proud of their progress, she couldn't stop her grinning or glancing at the focus in his eyes and the easy, authentic smile on his face.

He was her boy, her sweet and unwittingly wise boy who she wouldn't change for the world: Daniel was perfect exactly the way he was.

 

 


	16. Momma Look Sharp

With Ava tucked back in bed upstairs, Quinn galloped down a floor and made her way to the master bedroom where Thing One lay sleeping. Although not as tall as his younger brother, Josh took up a good chunk of the bed and snored like a supersonic jet. She never knew a human could emit that level of decibels. A big bare foot stuck out from underneath the mangled blankets and his features were lax, peaceful. He looked every bit the little boy she remembered instead of the angry young man who mostly brushed her off last night. And rightfully so, she supposed.

Josh grumbled in his sleep then a foot wiggled farther out from under the covers. A blonde eyebrow arched as a terrible idea crossed her mind. The temptation was too great.

She sat down on the end of the bed, taking her son's foot in her lap. "This little piggy went to market…" She waggled his big toe and chuckled to herself as he twitched. Her grip firmed; she didn't need him breaking her face, especially not before a photo shoot. "This little piggy stayed home."

He snorted and jerked again. Quinn moved on to the third "piggy", tickling the sole of his foot along the way. Thank God she had a good hold on the clodhopper. She used this technique as an alarm many a morning when he was younger. The kid had a kick like a 12 gauge shotgun even back then. "This little piggy had synthetically cultivated roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And  _this_  little piggy had—"

"Don't even." The voice was snarky but not altogether mean.

For a second she considered finishing the rhyme then thought better of it. She had no desire to start the day with a pissy teenager. Fighting with Rachel had taken too much out of her and she couldn't stomach fighting with her son, too. So, Quinn chose to heed the warning and accept that her plan backfired. She tossed his foot away. "It's wake-up time, Bubbas. We have to talk."

Although bleary, his hazel eyes glared at her. Evidently, she was no longer allowed to call him that. Mentally bulleting "Bubbas" (and its source " _bubbeleh_ " just to be safe) on a new list of unwelcome endearments, she began.

"Mama needs a favor."

Quinn explained the situation, speaking to him as adult and making it very clear that participating in a  _Vanity Fair_  photo session was his choice. She wouldn't bribe him or beg; she wouldn't threaten or force; and her guilting was relatively minor because she already knew he cared about his mama and would do nigh on anything for her.

"It'll really help?" He'd sat up by now, leaning against the headboard and drawing random lines on the bedsheets. But he wasn't looking at her.

"Yes." She nodded then ran a hand through her hair, fatigued. "It'll help put her back out there. Renew interest in her career."

Now Josh's gaze weighed upon her. "What's in it for you?"

"Well," Quinn gnawed her lower lip, thinking how best to answer him. It wasn't as though she could claim altruism. "One, it gives me more time with you and your brother and sister. I know that's probably the biggest drawback for you, but it's everything to me, Josh. I can't," she blew out a shaky breath. "I can't take being away from you guys for so long."

"Says the woman who left us home all the time."

Deserved, but cutting. "I was never gone this long, though, Josh. The longest was a month, not five. And I do regret it."

Josh flung back the blankets and shot out of bed. She was scum to him. She saw it all over his face. She wondered if this was even worth the effort since he'd made up his mind about her already. Was it the same as she might have done with Russell? Would she have given her father the chance to apologize if he wanted it? Or would she have condemned him for even trying?

"I know you don't belie—"

"What's the second reason?"

That was the crux of it. Quinn stood and approached her son. The nervous habit of playing with her fingers returned as it was wont to do during her most trying hours. Taking a deep breath, she confessed her biggest fear to her son. "This may be the last thing she'll ever let me do for her."

With an angle to match her own, Josh's eyebrow rose, hiding under the shaggy locks covering his forehead.

Quinn pushed on, uncertain where this explanation was coming from. "I haven't been there for her in a long while. I'm trying to change that, to be supportive like I used to be. It won't be enough to fix this, but it's something. No, I don't know what's going to happen after today, but if anything, it's a start to civility, Josh."

Only the patter of the rain outside interrupted the silence between them. The sixteen-year-old's gaze measured and weighed her with the kind of judgment privy to angry, wounded children whose parents fucked up in a big way. She held his stare, letting him assess her and ascertain the truth in her words. Speaking before the UN on behalf of the WHO for the first time was trifling in comparison.

"Please help me do this for her." Quinn wasn't above begging when it came to her family, when it came to Rachel. "You can hate me as much as you want afterward, but please, Bubb—Josh," she caught herself, barely. She wasn't willing to risk losing whatever ground she might have gained by using a nickname he didn't want to hear. "Please."

Joshua could be just as cold as Quinn. She was well acquainted with the kind of rejection he may throw at her. He turned away, and she dropped one hand to her waist while her face fell to the palm of the other.

At least she could be photographed with Rachel. It wouldn't generate nearly as much interest as a spread featuring the kids, but Geoffrey would make do. The mothers had no plans to make celebrities of their children or exploit personal photos of them to random gossip rags, nor would they agree to this again. The pug-faced man had the power of spin and marketing so he'd just have to do whatever it took to get Rachel back in the public sphere and make him money.

The sigh pouring from her son was heavy, too heavy for someone his age. She looked up in time to spot the imperceptible nod of his head. "Okay."

"Thank you," she said, unafraid of the relief and gratitude flooding her voice. Finally, something was going right.

Josh continued to stare out the window. He made no acknowledgment of her words, keeping his back to her and tilting his head to the side, watching the rain. "Looks like it might be sunny today…"

Quinn looked past him at the gray clouds blanketing the sky and the water pouring down in sheets.  _Sunny_. The word they'd used to replace "I love you" because no teenage boy told his mommy in public he loved her. Josh could tell his mama without a second thought, but things had changed between the doctor and her son as time went by and she was around less and less.

There was a distance that wouldn't allow either of them to be vulnerable. Saying "I love you" made someone vulnerable and gave others the power to destroy.

So they stopped saying it.

Fear of weakness must be embedded in the Fabray bloodline—she prayed self-loathing wasn't hereditary, too. But he said their word. The name of the bedtime song he'd always demanded she sing whenever she was the one to put him down for the night and the very same he asked her to sing last night. Something like hope ignited within her.

"You think so?"

"Maybe. Sunnier than it's been in months." He glanced over his shoulder at her, his face unreadable. No, he wasn't talking about the weather, and he couldn't hide the tremble of his chin.

Neither could she. Quinn bit her lip and tried for a connection, hoping she wasn't crossing boundaries she couldn't see. "I've missed sunny days."

The young man huffed out a giant breath, fogging a small portion of the window. "Me too." He pivoted and stalked out of the room, not raising his eyes from the floor.

He was gone, but it didn't mean she'd lost him.

Shaky hands ran over her face as Quinn took the time to compose herself before heading back downstairs. She made it to the dining room where Daniel was setting the table. The kitchen wasn't big enough for anything larger than a café set tucked in the corner of it, so family meals were always in here, together. As together as they could be when only one parent was present, that was. Silently, she moved to assist him. He didn't say a word but did offer a polite smile which she returned. He seemed to be doing well with that.

"Are you excited? I can't tell." Danny focused on righting the silverware.

"About the photo shoot?"

He nodded, fiddling with a fork until it met his placement standards.

"Truthfully, I'm sort of scared. Last time I did one of these was when you were little. It was for a magazine called  _Time_."

"What was it like?"

The woman shrugged. She hadn't been comfortable with it at all.

All the work Quinn put into getting rid of Lucy left her photogenic to an unprecedented degree. But she disliked the idea of a camera looking through her or so many people seeing her in general because every time she looked in the mirror, she still saw Lucy. Quinn couldn't risk everyone else seeing her, too.

Chubby and awkward, Lucy had chaotic curls and metal braces which made her self-conscious and kept her mouth closed. Russell told her so often that she needed to smile more. Not because she was prettier when she did, but because he couldn't have people thinking Russell Fabray's child was unhappy. It was bad enough she was fat and ugly (her words, not his) and couldn't live up to the benchmark of beauty her mother and sister had set, the least she could do for him was pretend to give a damn about the family's good image (his words, not hers).

So she smiled when she was sad, when she was angry or lonely, when she just wanted to hide her crooked nose in a book and live in a world where daddies loved their daughters no matter what size dress they wore. She'd smiled in the hope that one day her father would love her like he used to when she'd been smaller and cute and light enough for him to carry on his shoulders. And on days she couldn't bring herself to smile for him, filling her mouth with food became a good excuse not to.

She was so afraid the world would overlook the accomplishments of her career and academic merit, past the shields and walls created by Quinn, and past the prettiness she'd forced herself to suffer for and see the truth that inside, she was still Lucy. And Lucy wasn't good enough. Not for anyone.

"I don't remember, Danny. It was a long time ago."

The boy let it go and the doorbell sounded right as Josh and Rachel emerged from the kitchen, hands laden with food.

"Eat. I've got it." The brunette set down the food then flew to the front door. People were already here.

Quinn sat with the boys and dug in once Josh assured her he'd saved a plate for the sleeping Ava. Rachel's voice was clear and loud enough for her to understand that the security personnel were here along with the stylist team from  _Vanity Fair._  Her skin prickled. Once again food became her refuge as a forkful of scrambled eggs did its best to quell her nerves.

Her sons clearly did not share the same fears as they wolfed down their breakfasts. Conversation never happened around the Fabray-Berry boys and food. Josh was already serving himself seconds.

Rachel sped past them all to the kitchen, returning with a bowl of fruit and more coffee. "They're setting up in the study. I'll be upstairs for make-up and hair. All three of you need to shower. Joshua, your sister will need a bath. And you two—" she gestured with her mug to the boys, "better shave. No excuses," she added when Josh's egg-filled mouth opened in protest. The famous Mama Bear Berry "don't mess with me" look was out in full force.

Josh chomped down, scowling.

"Also," now she was pointing to Josh and  _Quinn_. "You are not allowed to put any product in your hair lest it hinder the work of the fine and capable professionals upstairs. Let's make their jobs a little easier, shall we?"

Three heads bobbed in dumb agreement. Quinn had forgotten what it was like to be ordered around by the diva.

"Thank you." Her voice was clipped and in a flash, Rachel was off.

The rest of the actress's words settled in. She'd been commanded to shower. Quinn was a fan of showers and cleanliness in general. Spending two weeks on a vaccination missions with wet wipes or collected rain water and a rag made one very grateful for the luxury of bathing daily with hot water. So, that part she was fine with. The not fine part was the location and what she'd wear afterward. Was she supposed to use the master bathroom, or head straight for the guest room's en suite? Did she put on Rachel's clothes while she waited for whatever outfit the magazine people would choose for her or throw on the sweats she slept in the night before?

"Why do I have to shave?" Daniel broke through her uncertainty.

Quinn tried for a smile. "Well, that's quite the beard you have there, D."

And it was. Dark but not yet full, it made him look over ten years older than he was. It was freaky, honestly. Poor Josh, though. Josh was the one lacking when it came to facial hair. Patches of scraggly auburn fuzz dotted his cheeks and for a while he had a tassel of hair hanging from his chin that Rachel threatened to cut off if he didn't get rid of it himself. The doctor had been in her office when that fight erupted, hiding her laughter behind her hand when her melodramatic wife rushed in to get a pair of scissors to deal with the vile plague afflicting their eldest child. Quinn chuckled at the memory and the furry face in front of her frowned.

"Will you shave with me?" Daniel asked.

The buddy system had returned? She thought he'd outgrown this last year, but evidently now it was back. Probably as a coping mechanism since she moved out. Daniel needed routine, even if that routine was Quinn flying out every few months or staying late at work, and having her permanently gone broke that routine.

The doctor shifted in her seat, uncomfortable in knowing she was the cause of such a regression. The psychologist's recommendation that Daniel learn how to share in others' experiences and invite them to share in his got lost in translation. The man meant for Danny to learn empathy by celebrating with people if they were happy or mourning with them if they were sad. Not for him to literally share a single experience together, like inviting Josh go with him to their room because Danny left his milk up there and thought his brother needed to partake in its retrieval, or asking his very female mother to shave with him. Teaching her sons to shave had actually been hilariously awkward, then just hilarious because she couldn't grow a beard. Josh said that that fact was reason enough for her to have no knowledge of this secret, manly ceremony.

She'd learned it from Russell.

Flashbacks of small, still slender Lucy standing on her step-stool at the bathroom sink next to her daddy almost every morning came to mind. Doing that was of her earliest memories. Russell was an old-fashioned man with old-fashioned religion and old-fashioned style and old-fashioned politics. But he never stopped his daughter from standing at the counter and watching the morning ritual of every man who wanted a "clean and honest face."

The shaving kit was a birthday gift to a young Russell from his father. Lucy would listen with wide eyes and open ears as he told her stories of her grandfather in the war and how heroic he'd been while wetting his face then lathering his special shaving soap in his special shaving mug. Made of porcelain, it was fubsy and wide, perfect for the badger hair shaving brush to stir around in and gather a soapy froth for optimal smoothness, and had a picture of a Model T printed on it in faded blue ink. That had been her grandfather's, too.

He'd swirl the brush over his cheeks and neck in hypnotizing circles and tell his darling girl all about work and what grand things he'd be doing that day, sometimes asking for a new drawing to hang in his office or if she wanted to help him tie his necktie afterward because it'd be good practice for when she had a husband. She'd hung on his every word. But whenever he brought out his razor, Lucy always got nervous. The edge was smooth and knifelike, and she didn't want Daddy to cut himself. However, she kept bacitracin and Kleenex on hand in case he had an accident and got hurt. As his special helper, it was her special job. Yet he'd smile and tell her not to worry: Daddies don't get hurt.

He was so good at it that he could keep speaking while the razor blade slid down his face, always with the grain. One time when she was four, she'd gotten bored watching the clean strokes and wasn't really listening to him talk about how his friend had a boat and that he was going to teach her how to fish that summer with her plastic Snoopy pole and red bobbers he'd given her for Christmas. Russell wanted a boy after Frannie. They'd planned for one. But the baby who was supposed to be Louis Quinn Fabray after came out all wrong. She was Lucy instead.

Daddy treated her like a girl some times and like a boy other times. She never knew which one she was supposed to be for him. Because of that, while still in her pink nightgown, she'd reached past the bottle of Old Spice aftershave and picked up the brush, rubbing it over her cheeks just as she'd seen him do nearly every day. She'd wondered if it tickled his cheeks, too, and if daddies were ticklish at all. Russell had stopped mid-stroke and stared at her in the mirror with her babyface covered in white foam. And started laughing.

He laughed so hard that tears leaked from his eyes, streaking through the shaving soap on his own face. Then he'd gone to his bedroom and returned with a shiny silver box. He opened it and presented it to his daughter, informing her that it was supposed to be hers if she'd just have come out right like the doctors said when she was still in her mommy's belly. But he thought she could have it anyway. Quinn still recalled the heft of the bladeless razor in her hand, how he'd shown her the way to hold it and smooth the dull edge of the empty cartridge down her cheek, leaving a trail of clean skin behind. When she got it right, they stood side by side making faces in the mirror, father and daughter shaving. Her mom had gotten a picture of it after she came in and handed Daddy his Sloe gin and orange juice breakfast. Her parents were all smiles as Lucy proudly proclaimed how much she was "just like Daddy".

Quinn looked down at her plate, appetite gone. Things were good when she was younger, smaller. Before she got wider and became more interested in books than in baseball or camping or anything else her daddy would have shown Louis but had taught to Lucy by default. Once upon a time, Russell had been a good father and husband. Just like once upon a time, Quinn had been a good mother and wife. She felt sick.

"Mom?"

She had no way of knowing how long she'd been silent, not answering Danny's question.

Josh was there at the rescue. "I'll shave with you after we take showers," he said. "That way we'll both remember to brush our teeth and put on deodorant, too."

Because Daniel sometimes forgot to do those things. The fact that Josh never treated his brother as different made Quinn proud. He helped when necessary and knew when to let the younger boy learn on his own. Ava was the same, intuitively knowing what Danny could do and what he couldn't do without guidance. And Daniel had grown because of his siblings' simple and loving assistance. The result was all three of them carrying over these qualities when interacting with others. Her lips spread in a small smile. She may not have been an award-winning mother, and she and Rachel were far from perfect parents, but somewhere along the line they'd done something right.

"I'll take care of Ava, then. We'll use the guest bathroom so you guys can have the upstairs one to yourselves," Quinn said. Showering in what was now Rachel's space didn't feel right, and waiting for her sons to wash up before she could get her daughter in the bath was not time they could afford to spare today. She'd just toss Avy in the tub first then rush through her own shower. " _Tia's_  stuff is still in there, right?"

"She uses Mama's shower now."

Puzzled, Quinn looked at Daniel who was focused on his breakfast. "What, D?"

"She uses Mama's shower when she stays over because they're sleeping together."

She didn't hear that right.

She couldn't have.

Rachel and Santana were  _sleeping together_?

No, there was no way Rachel would do that to her.

There was no way Santana would do that to her.

But why was Rachel so protective of Santana this morning, so quick to defend her when Quinn hadn't accused her of anything? And why was Santana lying to both Quinn and Rachel about one not wanting to see the other? No... She shook her head. Daniel was mistaken.

The blonde glanced at her oldest child for some kind of rebuttal to his brother's statement. For him to tell her Daniel was wrong or had mixed something up. Instead, she got a statue. His eyes were trained on his plate and his jaw clenched so hard Quinn was sure he'd break his teeth. The fork in his hand was bending in his grip. No. No no no no no no, please God, no.

"Josh?"

She needed him to tell her it wasn't true, even if that itself would be a lie.

But he didn't. He didn't do anything. Didn't blink. Didn't speak. Didn't breathe.

There was a commotion from outside. Neither she nor Josh moved. Daniel watched them both then stood and turned toward the door. It opened before he took a single step, a vehement stream of Spanish and English echoing into the house.

" _¡Dios mio!_  Burly-ass mutherfuckers telling me I can't come in!  _¡Pendejos!_ Yeah, I'm talking to you!Just try and stop me,  _puto._ "

To her credit, the foul-mouthed creature wasn't retreating into the safety of the townhouse. In fact, it sounded like she just stuck her neck outside to level up the taunting.

"That's right, assholes, come and get me now. Hmmph. Tellin' me I can't come in mah damns house."

Quinn, who'd collapsed back in her chair in defeat, jerked upright then bolted out of the dining room. She stopped at the edge of the foyer to see the door bang shut and stared down the intruder. Because that's what this woman was now. Unwelcome.

Black eyes went wide and full, plum colored lips parted in silent surprise. Rare was the day the mouthy lawyer was caught mute, especially since she'd only now been cussing out two security guards like she'd just come back from Lima Heights Adjacent with an even bigger chip on her shoulder. That shocked visage was priceless.

However, the doctor couldn't enjoy it for the dread and rage roiling within her. Her hands balled into fists at her sides the instant the visitor spoke.

"Quinn?" The raven haired woman swallowed and attempted a friendly smile. "You're here."

She kept her face perfectly blank, broadcasting nothing of her suspicions about her longtime friend's misleading of Rachel about divorce proceedings, nor the fury born from Daniel's off-handed remark about the traitor staying in her home. In her bed.  _With her_ _wife_ _._

"Quinn?" Fast feet trampled down the stairs. "What on Earth is going on? I heard shouting and the door sl—" Rachel skidded to a halt on the landing, hair curlers askew, "slam… H-hi, Tana." Her voice was quiet, hesitant, and… frightened?

Maybe.

Quinn ignored their words. She zeroed in on the two women before her, her eyes darting back and forth in search of  _something_. All she found were anxious stares and tense bodies.

"Hi, S," she said without feeling. Years of hiding her emotions proved useful and she kept her voice a steady, uncaring monotone. "How long have you been fucking my wife?"

The brunettes' eyes met. They spoke simultaneously, the same words but in different languages.

"Oh shit."

That was confirmation enough for her. Quinn's world went red.

 

 


End file.
